All or None
by star-eyed cynic
Summary: Peeta applies as first footman at a manor house where he becomes enchanted with Lady Katniss, but there is more to her than what meets the eye. The story of a forbidden love in the deceptively beautiful Panem House. Peeta's POV. AU
1. Prologue

**All or None**

**Prologue**

"Peeta, that's an… odd name." The man drones and then gives me a questioning glance. I flash a quick smile, I am use to this question by now, "Yes it is an odd name. A distant Swedish relative's terrible attempt to Anglicanize his name during the 15th century. Been in the family for years, and we really can't abandon it now, can we?"

The small desk between us seems to grow in distance and his dingy office becomes darker. My humor is lost on him and I only receive a stiff nod. "So Peeta," He continues his voice drawing out the syllables in my name, "what was line of work did you said your father was in again?"

"Baker." I answer instinctively.

His cold blue eyes give off a glint, he clearly sees this as a much more fitting occupation for me.

The pale lips on his face form into a ghost of a smile and I am getting the impression that my interview will end sooner than planned. "And he can't use a big, strong lad like you to help him?"

"No." I answer in a split second. It is the absolute truth, why should I hesitate to say it. "I have two older brothers, and even if there was enough work for all of us to do there wouldn't be enough profits for us to split between us. Besides my mother has always dreamed that I would go on to be a well thought of butler to great house like this someday."

His expression sourers, I have gone too far. "After I have put my time in, of course." I clarify.

He gives a grunt of approval and studies my reference again. It feels silly to me, the letter is from my father. His finger starts underlining the words as he reads it to himself again. "How old are you Peeta?" He asks off handedly, his finger still tracing the words on the page as he reads on.

"Sixteen."

His finger stops. "And are you a 'hard worker' like this says."

"Yes sir, I never give up on anything once I put my mind to it."

"And will you put your mind to it?"

His skepticism does not escape me. "Of course sir, I want nothing more than to be a success."

"You won't be climbing the ladders right away, the first footman is highly capable and The Lord of the house is in charge of any promotions." He searches my face seeing if his comment has caused any disillusions to form within me.

"Of course sir, I wouldn't have it any other way. I don't believe in getting things I haven't worked for."

"Hmm, good." His eyes drift to his offices small window. I can almost see the thoughts forming in his head. I am sure his next comment will be wether or not the job is mine. His eyes snap away from the window and hone in on me. I try and relax my facial features so I don't look so frightens. The world seems to be moving at half its normal speed. His mouth creeps open.

"And you plan to stay at this position for an appropriate amount of time, should I give it to you?"

My eyes scrunch shut for a moment and when my vision returns I realize my mouth is open. This was not at all what I expected he would say next.

"Yes, of course." I answer.

I wish I hadn't said anything at all. My voice came out as as shocked, hoarse whisper and not in the same cool and calm manner that the rest of my answers had. Thankfully, he doesn't seem to notice and gives another grunt and averts his gaze back to the window.

After what seems like an eternity his eyes come back to me. He makes one final study of my face. I feel like I almost should say something, but he speaks first. "I decided I will let you on. You will work on a trial basis which I will explain, but first I want you to have a full understanding of the place you will work and the people you will serve. Panem is the finest house in all of the county, maybe in the whole country. It works like a clock, each piece relying on another to keep things running smoothly. When you are here you will answer to me or, the Head Housekeeper, Mrs. Coin. It is our job, and especially mine, to ensure that no shame, dishonor, or inefficiency ever brings down the greatest house ever built by human hands."

I am not sure what my facial expression should be during this diatribe. I default to a stoic expression, though in my head I am laughing at how much stock he puts into this place. It is great big house to be sure, but to hear him talk you would think it rivaled Buckingham.

His voice breaks into my thoughts. "Lord and Lady Clayworth are the beating heart of the house. You will learn the protocol of what jobs are and are not permissible for a person in your position, but it is important to remember that no rules apply when it comes to their demands. If they ask then it is your job to do it."

I nod my head to show that I comprehended what he had said. He gives me an approving smile in return.

"Good, glad to see that you understand. Now I would like to explain the specifics of your job as second footman. You will be responsible for shining the shoes of The Lord and Lady and any guest they might have, setting the table with the help of the first footman for both the upstairs and the downstairs, serving tea to the family, and clearing the table of all serving dishes and glassware from the table. There are other things, but those are the basics The Lord does not have any sons so this significantly lessens your duties. I will have a full list for you on your first day and the house schedule."

"Thank you very much sir." His sharp eyes cut me off and I realize I shouldn't have spoken.

"You will need to be fitted for your livery before you leave today and have your things moved into your room by Sunday, and will start your first day on Monday. As I mentioned before you will be on a temporary basis and will receive only half-pay the first six month. You will receive back-pay if I let you stay longer. Do you understand?"

"Yes sir."

"And do you have any questions?"

"None that I can think of."

"Good." He stands up to leave and I follow his example. Once out of his office I turn to speak to him one last time. "Thank you very much, I won't make you regret it Mr. Snow."


	2. Chapter 1

**All or None**

**Chapter 1**

**Year 1912**

I read through the list provided again as I lie on my narrow bed. I want to have it memorized tomorrow is my first day as a footman and I want to perform perfectly. My mind drifts off to my last meal with my family and I feel a twinge of pain as I think about it. My father cried through the whole meal ruining my mother's mood. Most of the conversation was made up of her snapping at my father that he should be grateful that I was going to make something of myself and not die a penniless baker.

I shake my head I can't think about these things I don't want to end up crying when the other footman walks in. His name is David Cato and he doesn't seem like the type who would turn a blind eye to a person's weakness and I don't need it spread around that I sobbing about leaving my family the first night.

I force myself to read the schedule again to get my mind off things. Mr. Snow, the Butler, was not lying to me in the interview, there would be plenty of setting and cleaning table, shinning shoes, and serving tea. I smile to myself as I read that I am suppose to be up at six. I sounds like a holiday to me after years of working in a bakery, then must be ready and in the kitchen by a half past and get a bite to eat then. I can't eat breakfast with the rest of the servants because I will be serving the family breakfast. At seven it is my job to wake the Chef with a cup of tea, then head upstairs to set the table and serve breakfast to the family. I then need to wait at the door. I skim the list, it seems throughout the day I am slotted in for a small eternity of standing by the front door ready to answer. After that it is more table setting, serving, shoe collecting, shoe shining, then straight off to bed. The door swings open; Cato is finally come up for bed.

I am unsure of what to say. I don't particularly like him, the first thing he ever said to me was the bed farthest away from the slanted ceiling was his and I shouldn't even consider taking it. This was only seconds after we had been introduced. I have never understood nasty people. It would have made a lot of sense to me to just say that he needed that bed because of how tall he was.

"Why are you staring at me!" His voice cuts in to my thoughts.

"I'm not staring at you!" I fire back. In all honesty I may have been making a study of him, but I am not admitting that now.

"Look if you think I am here to baby you and tell you that it's all gonna be alright you've got another thing coming. Our job is a competition. A competition I am currently winning since I am first footman, and I am not going to help you steal my job. This is an every man for himself situation, got it."

He is practically snarling his words at me just spoiling for a fight. I am not afraid of him, he only has a few inches on me and I am not giving him the satisfaction of having me thrown off the job before I have even started for fist fighting.

I smile at him. "Alrighty then, mind if I turn off the light?"

He twitches forward at me like he was going to lunge, and then stops as he processes what I have said. I swear I can see his face going red as he spins around to his own bed. He climbs in and I cut the gas to the light. Darkness fills the room, followed by dreams that fill my mind.

I start my morning off by smacking my head against the low ceiling as I sit up in bed frantic that I have over slept. As I gingerly rub the back of my head I realize Cato saw and is smirking at me. I can't worry about him today. I have a job to focus on. It takes next to no time to dress in my livery. My room, and I assume the whole upstairs, is freezing cold providing good motivation. I am ready and downstairs almost fifteen minutes early.

Stepping into the kitchen is one of the most pleasant experiences I have had since I have been in Panem. For one thing it is warm, which after being cold so long makes you instantly relax and almost restores your soul in a way. It also reminds me of home, even if it is missing the signature smell of freshly ground flour and new yeast. It all seems very familiar indeed, especially with a blonde girl who seems about my age bobbing around as she makes biscuits.

Her blue eyes snap up. She has seen me. Her pink lips draw up into a smile.

"Hello. You must be Peter the new footman." I could tell just by the way her eyes crinkled at the edges that she truly was happy to see me, and seemed so pleasant that I felt no awkwardness as I corrected my name. She gives another true smile before speaking again.

"Oh, I am sorry. I understand though my name is Delly Cartwright, but people are always calling me Dilly."

I am about to tell her that I can empathize with her problem perfectly, but a kettle starts whistling first. She runs over to the stove to start tending to it and Cato walks in and gives me a funny look. It is an expression halfway between neutral and smirking. I fear he has seen some weakness in me. Delly starts straining the tea and placing the filled cups on breakfast trays.

"Hurry up, you know Mr. Snow likes his tea hot." Cato snaps.

"Mm-hmm." Delly hums in a sing-song voice and then pushes a tray forward. Cato grabs it like he had to wait for three weeks instead of three seconds and storms out of the kitchen. Delly's eyes follow him until he is out of earshot and then whispers, "Mr. Snow likes his tea so hot I swear it makes his mouth bleed."

I try to give a brief smile, but am not sure if she is joking or not. She notices my confusion and changes the subject. "Anyway, I am the kitchen maid so you'll be seeing me every morning to get the Chef, Mrs. Sae's, breakfast. They told you it's your job to take Mrs. Sae her breakfast, right?" Her eyes are swimming with the question and she seems very concerned, I nod vigorously to try and put her at ease. Delly sighs with relief and moves her lips up to show off her dimples again.

"Good, good. I was hoping they had. Anyway you are suppose to bring it to her at seven o'clock sharp, but if you wake her up at five past you'll be in her good graces."

"Thanks, I'll keep that in mind." I say.

Her hands stop moving and her eyes meet mine again as she says, "You can't do that today, of course."

I am perplexed on why today is not a good day to follow her advise, "Why not?"

She leans over the counter and coats her apron in the mess from her biscuits. She signals me to lean in too. "Because Mr. Snow will be watching everything you do like a hawk," she whispers in a barely audible voice, "You must do everything by the book for at least the first week or he'll sack you."

"Right." I say with a curt nod.

She pulls back from the counter again and resumes her work, "Good." she says, "Remember you can always start gaining favor with people after the first full week. Anyway, you should get going, or you will be late." She pushes a full tray towards me. "Her room is right off the kitchen, and as soon as you get out I will have a quick breakfast ready for you."

I tell her thank you one last time and then take the edges of the tray into my hands. The door that Dilly motioned to when she mentioned Mrs. Sae's room looks ancient with cracking black paint covering it. I give two sharp knocks before entering then turn the handle. The door lets out what seems to me like an unbearably loud shriek, but I might just be interpreting it that way because I am scared about what I might find.

I find out that my fear is unfounded as I finally enter the room. It's a cold, dark little place, with a stone floor like the kitchen and is more sad than frightening. Two strides away the old woman is asleep in her bed still snoring, with her long, gray hair spread out in a way that makes her look like a witch.

I am uncertain of what to do next, I was secretly hoping that she would be awake from my knocking when I opened the door and I would have to shake to consciences a complete stranger. I drop the tray from about an inch above the bedside table in a last minute attempt to wake her. Her eyes snap open the second the tray makes contact with the table.

She sits up as if in a trance and I start muttering out my apologies, but she cuts me off. "No time for that." her old, withered voice croaks, "Where's my tea?"

I press the cup and saucer into her hands. She lifts the cup up to her mouth and then stops a hair breath away from her mouth and gives me a pointed look. "You can go now." She says.

My mouth drops I was not expecting this. I give a jerking gesture with my body which I think was suppose to be a bow, but might have ended up looking like a curtsy. It only takes me two steps to make it to the door and as I draw it closed I stop. I need to ask her something. Poking my head back into the dark room I make eye contact with her sharp gaze. "I am sorry, I just had to ask you. How do you want me to wake you up?"

She frowns and I think she is unhappy that I am distracting her from her tea. "How you did it today is fine." Her leathery hands then move up to shoo me away. I don't want to irritate her anymore and draw the door closed.

Back in the kitchen Delly is more busy than ever frying sausages and tending to eggs. She does have a plate ready for me though, just like she said. I take the two eggs and a biscuit to the servants table and sit down. I am unsure on how to proceed, meals were always such a personal thing to me. My family always ate together, even if we were rushed as we got ready to go to work we were still together. Now I sit alone at a long empty table, in a dark room, with food that is growing cold.

My stomach twist and I feel too sick to eat eggs. People always say I am a people person and I guess that I am in a way. I am never nervous around them, but sometimes if I think too hard about interacting with them, especially in a new situation, I can start feeling a bit skittish. I break the bread to distract myself and nibble the edge. Is it wrong to think that my father's baking is better? Delly's aren't bad by any measure, but my father's… my father's always made me feel safe and warm, and like I was home and would always feel loved and protected.

"Peeta what are you still doing down here?" Delly calls from the kitchen, "Go up now, you're already late."

"Oh, I am?" She pulls her lips taught and gives an exaggerated nod to answer my question. I must have gotten lost in my own thoughts and lost track of the time. I hurry over to the stairs and start taking them two at a time.

I have to stop on the second flight to let a maid pass by me. She has a head of flaming red hair and a very pleasant face. I turn parallel to the wall to try and give her some space to pass me on the narrow stairs.

One step above me her feet stop moving and I wonder if there is some kind of protocol I am breaking about stair passing etiquette that I don't know. I must look scared she gives me a reassuring smile. "Hold on," She says, "looks like someone could use a friend." Her quick hands move to my tie and she starts undoing it.

I know she is trying to help, but I have no idea why she is doing this, "Um, what…"

She moves a hand up and flicks it as if to dismiss my question, "Oh, you've tied it completely wrong. Don't worry it won't take, but a moment to fix." She isn't lying she tugs both ends to finish the bow as soon she stops speaking.

Her eyes leave my neck and move up to my face for the first time. "You must be Peeta the new footman." She concludes as she looks at me.

"Yes I am, thanks for the help." I say as I finger her handy-work to admire it.

"You're very welcome. I am Lavinia and I will be happy to help you again if you need, don't hesitate to ask."

"I won't and thank you again."

"Don't thank me just yet, you are very late and Mr. Snow won't be happy." I can see by her face that this is not a joke. We both turn sideways and pass each other finally and I hurry up to the dinning room.

The walls are blood red and I didn't know they could make a paint color this intense. The room seems to have a theme of eagles because at first glance I see six different oil paintings of them. Some of the picture are twice the size of me, and I can't help but wish I could have a canvass that size some day. The dining element of the room is not lost in the decor tiny cornucopias are pressed into the white crown molding of the room their bounty accented with gold leafing.

Mr. Snow is standing at the head of the table like a lion in wait, and Cato is hovering next to him like a buzzard waiting to pick away the scraps of the kill. "Where have you been Mr. Mellark?" Mr. Snow drones. I notice he calls me Mr. Mellark instead of Peeta which is a bad sign.

"I am sorry sir, I lost track of the time. It won't happen again." I would have given a better apology except Cato keeps eyeing my tie and I realize that this is what he was smirking at this morning.

"Mr. Mellark when I agreed to take you on for a trial basis I thought I explained clearly that this house is like a clock and one faulty piece could ruin the whole operation." His eyes are so cold and icy as he speaks I almost can't look at them.

I try not to squirm under his gaze as I answer him, "You did sir, and I repeat I am sorry."

His eyes narrow into slits, "You should be sorry because you were five minutes late breakfast will be served five minutes late, then luncheon, then tea, and finally dinner. Your tardiness has put a small dent in all the order I try to maintain. Is the family to have breakfast at midnight and go to bed at noon because order has been destroyed? Panem is a delicate machine, it must be cared for and nurtured, and any vices of the staff must be crushed out. Do you understand Mr. Mellark?"

"Yes sir, I understand."

"Good, because if it happens again you will be dismissed. I must maintain order." Nothing in his facial expression is anything but neutral, except for his eyes. His eyes have a burning in them that cannot be matched and I know that he means every word he is saying with a kind of passion I have never felt in my life.

He turns away from me ending discussion on the matter and Cato presents me with the other end of a table cloth. Snow circles us as we spread it over the table. He tugs at it and makes a comment about how we must keep all the folds even on all four sides. A thin red cloth is then placed over the white one and once it is made even we can start setting the table.

I learn that there is a precise place for all the plates, china, and silverware. Mr. Snow reminds me of this constantly as moves around measuring all the place settings with his pre-marked stick. He says things like: this plate is too far to the left and then taps it with one finger to correct it; the spoon and knife are too close together, and then runs his nail in between them to separate them out; what were you thinking when you set this plate, why is it so high? They all looked the same to me before we started and I can hardly believe that anyone would notice the small discrepancies especially after they started eating.

Once the table is finally set to Snow's standards I have the final honor of placing the center piece on. It is a crystal vase filled with a half circle of pure, white roses. I look up to Snow as I set it down and he signals me to turn it slightly. The table is done and it is now time for serving.

Back in the kitchen Cato is handed a plater of eggs and I am given a tray of bacon and various other cured meats all fanned out in a cascading pattern. I am forced to follow Cato who proceeds up the stairs at an agonizingly slow rate. For all of Snow's fussing we must be ahead of schedule or else Cato wouldn't risk this stunt.

In the blood colored room again The Lord of the house is sitting at the head of the table. He is wearing a tweed suit and I try not to smile as I think that his most casual clothing would be my finest. For the first time in my life I am grateful to Cato, he serves first and I have his example to follow. It is my turn. I copy his movements exactly and hover the meat in front of Lord Clayworth. He selects the pieces he wants and then I step aside.

Snow is quick to move in and pull me aside. "What do you think you are doing, smothering his Lordship?" I want to retort something about his Lordship not noticing my faux pas and how he was currently nibbling on his eggs as if nothing at all had happened. I bite my lip to keep these words from coming out and Snow's eyes bore into me. He whispers in a hoarse voice, "Go back to the kitchen and bring up the rest of the things."

I don't hesitate a moment to head back down into the kitchen. I know I am on thin ice with Mr. Snow and I don't want to risk losing my job, especially on my first day. Cato is coming back up the stairs as I make my way down. Hopefully we can keep this timing and I will never have to be in the same room as him and we will only pass each other on the stairs.

I don't even set one foot in the kitchen before Delly has shoved a plater of oranges into my hands and points me back up to the stairs with a look on her face that lets me know that the news of my slight infractions are making their way around. Back up the stairs I go and somehow there always seems to be more stairs than the last time I climbed it. Holding out the plate in front of me and going up the steps does, however, waft the smell up of the fresh fruit and I look down to admire it. What a beautiful color orange is. It's like sunlight and warmth all with the intensity of a sunset. The fruit doesn't look so bad either. I've only had it once for Christmas and that must have been ten years ago. It's astonishing how they could have so much of a delicacy at one sitting, as if it were nothing.

The atmosphere of the room has changed for the better when I walk in again. Lord Clayworth is still sitting at the head of the table with not a hair of his blonde walrus mustache out of place. His porcelain tow-head wife is sitting to the left. She stares off blankly at nothing at all, this must be something that fine ladies do to make them appear elegant, and across from her is the person who makes the scene. Sitting pin-straight in the chair is a girl who I would age around twelve. Her face looks neutral like her mothers except the corner of her mouth is just slightly turned up with a secret only I can see. She has a string twisted around her right pinky with a feather on the end that she is having three, silky, shushed faced cats chase round and round. Not any other part of her body is moving and I like this girl instantly. She ruins the scene by perfecting it, and has outsmarted the social game everyone else is playing in their starched clothes and shiny shoes.

"Mr. Mellark, please stop lingering in the hallway." Snow has seen me and his tone is more annoyed than usual. As I approach the table I watch him from the corner of my eye. I was wrong I was not the only one witnessing the game with the cats, Snow has too and he can't do a thing about it.

I serve their families there orange slices keeping mind to have the platter stay farther away from each person than I did the first time I served Lord Clayworth. Snow may have noticed, but is still not pleased. He takes the tray from me and whispers discreetly, "You may go attend the front door now. We can't have it left unattended during visiting hours." He then turns away from me. I begin the long walk out of the room and try to restrain my laughter as my ears keep catching the sound of twelve cat paws scuffling and skidding around.

The front door is not far, but I am sure Mr. Snow would not be pleased at how long it took me to reach my post. I pass the stairs and a person catches my eye, and I have the distinct pleasure of watching a pure angel of beauty descend, one step at a time. A song breaks out in my heart, in my very being, and the song is wild, and untamed, and dusky.

The girl is so unlike the family dinning at the breakfast table, so unlike anyone I have ever seen. She has ink black hair, like a starless night, and her skin is tawny like a new fawn. My mother always warned me that I was too fair to ruin any children I ever have one good feature by marrying someone dark. "Marry cream." She would always say, but I don't want cream, I want the heady goodness that is before me. I want the girl who is dressed in a reed green dress. It is too dark for a traditional morning dress, but I never want to see her in anything else. I never want to see anyone else. There is only her and the love I feel for her. That is all there is or ever will be for me.

Please review if you are reading the story. Your input means a lot to me.

Next update will most likely be on Wednesday.


	3. Chapter 2

Author's Note: I see now why people like Milton were always blathering on about a 'muse' because sometimes when you write it is like the words just come to you at an alarming rate and you finish things much sooner than expected. My apologies for making you believe that the update would be on Wednesday.

**All or None**

**Chapter 2**

She notices me staring and her eyes grow flinty. She has such pretty eyes with their almond shape and the color of a gray cast over day. I don't move and this annoys her, each step she takes is proud and confident as she shows me that she will not be intimidated. She steps off the final stair and turns her gaze straight towards me. It is like being inches from a tiger, but I like the proximity. My heart is beating wildly. I think it might burst through my chest. I am sure my cheeks are scarlet, but I am not ashamed. My mouth opens. Am I really going to say something.

In a blur she turns away form me, and I am forced to watch as the heels of her shoes clip-clap in the direction of the room I have just left. How she moves isn't walking its more of the movements of an animal of prey stalking towards its game. Her movement are more proud in a way, more self assured; I realize that she must be a great lady. She vanishes behind the french doors and I let out a sigh. I am literally surrounded by gold, fine art, and priceless antiques and she was still the most beautiful and captivating thing in the room while she was here.

The front door is in sight from where I am standing, but I don't want to go over to it. Why would I ever want to put any distance between me and that girl if I can help it. I know I can't just stand at the foot of the stairs all day either, besides I am aware that I will most likely lose my job if Snow finds me here the way things have been going. I reluctantly make my way to the ancient wooden doors and then pause for a moment. Where exactly am I suppose to stand? I decide that a little off to the left is a logical place and I take up my post. I make sure to stand pin straight and throw out my chest a little. No one told me to do this, but when the dowager lived in the village I once saw her footman do this when I was very young and it left an impression on me.

The minutes tick by and then what feel like hours pass. My feet start to ache and I realize that standing stock still in one place is harder than it looks. In an effort to get my mind off of things I start thinking about the girl again. I need to remember that if I stand here long enough she will walk through that door eventually and I will be able to watch her go up the stairs. That would be such a gorgeous scene with the fabric of her green dress swishing gently with every step and her proud chin tilted slightly up so she would look like she was perpetually looking down on the world.

Three hours pass by and she never comes. It's alright I comfort myself, she lives here or is at least staying here for the moment and I will see here again. When the clock strikes eleven I go back down stairs to take tea. The kitchen is alive and buzzing when I walk in. It is no longer a dark place of solitude, but alive with people mending clothes, dodging around others while carrying two saucers, and maids giggling furiously at each other's stories. I technically am responsible for setting the table for this event, but I doubt anyone has the time or patience to wait.

A cup full of tea is pushed towards me and I look up to find Lavinia. "Here, come sit with me. I heard you've been having a rough day."

I take the cup from her hands and follow her to the end of the table. She sits just one seat short of the head of the table and I sit next to her. "So what have you heard?" I finally ask her, I want to know how much people know about my day.

She stops drinking her tea to answer me,"Oh, nothing much. Just that Snow has been giving you a hard time. That's all."

I rub my face with frustration before speaking. "I don't know what I have done. It seems like nothing I do can please him. It's almost like someone's already spoiled his opinion of me."

Her eyes dart off to see who is surrounding us and she lowers her voice, "I wouldn't put it past David," her head motions towards Cato, "The first week he was in here he told us that his parents had been planning on him becoming a Butler his entire life. Swears that his mother was making him memorize table ware at the age of seven."

I nod, I can relate to this. "What else do you know about him." I whisper.

She purses her lips, "Nothing much. Except… see that maid over there." Her eyes dart to a blonde girl sitting catty-corner from us at the table. I nod. "He fancies her."

"Oh." I say silently. I can't hate him for this, I fancy a girl now too. "She is another nasty one. Her name is Mary Gilmore, but we all call her Glimmer." Servants are coming and leaving the dining hall at a rapid pace now and I check my surroundings before asking, "Why's that?"

"She'll steal anything that is shiny: gold thimbles, silver letter openers, brass candle holders. Keeps it all tucked away somewhere, rumor has it that she is stashing it up someplace until she thinks she has enough to run away with David. I don't think that is wise whatever he promises her, he'll never leave his job for her."

This story shocks me. "Why don't you just report her?"

She gives a sympathetic smile like I am a small child. "Once the family learns things are being stolen lots of staff tend to lose their job. It's hard to prove that anyone took it unless they hide it in their rooms and she is too clever for that. She always takes small things from rooms with large collections, and never touches things in bedrooms or dressing rooms. Besides I suspect there is another thief, and what if it is someone I like more?"

"How do you know all of this?"

Her lip quirks up. "I clean every room everyday and have for three years, after a while you begin to notice things."

"What other things have you noticed?" I need to ask. Lavinia seems to know a lot about this place and has information I could definitely use later.

"What do you mean 'what other things have you noticed'?" Her nose crinkles up as she teases me.

I flash a smile, "You said you would help me, remember? What else do you know about things, people here?"

Her face goes slightly red with embarrassment and she glances up at the clock, "Oh alright, I have ten minutes left." Her voice drops down again and she starts muttering to herself, "Where to begin, where to begin…" She makes up her mind and her eyes lock down on a person, "See that dark haired girl sitting with Glimmer, her name is Clover O'Brien, goes by Clove though thinks it will toughen her up. Not that she needs it."

"What do you mean?" The girl is half my size and what I would describe as willowy. I don't see how she could pose a threat to anyone.

Lavinia takes another sip of her tea and lets out a pleased sigh before answering me, "She is another thief, steels kitchen knives."

"What?" I manage to say through my laughter, out of all the things a person could take from a place like this why would they take kitchen knives.

"Don't laugh." Lavinia snaps. Her voice drops so low I can barely make the words out as she says, "Did you see that girl leave? The one with the sharp face and red hair. The word is that the night she moved into the room with Glimmer and Clove. She woke up to Clove holding a knife to her throat and telling her that she needed to find a new place to sleep or she would slit her neck. I found her the next day sobbing in the hallway and scared to death."

"What did you do?" I ask in astonishment.

"Well I couldn't exactly let her run around reenacting her own version of Jack the Ripper, so I had Mabel Fox switch rooms with me." She says it like it was the most logical thing in the world and not an act of bravery.

"Aren't you scared?" Lavinia is not a big person herself and there are two of them.

She shakes her head dismissing the idea, "I am a Lady's Maid, they are only maids, they wouldn't dare try anything with me."

"Do you really think she did it, I mean hold the knife to the other maid's throat?" The whole idea seems so far from anything I had ever imagined going on behind these walls that it is still hard for me to wrap my mind around.

She pauses a moment before answering, "There is no way of knowing for sure, but all I know is that David, Glimmer, and Clove all form a nasty little team and think they'll run this house someday."

I nod in acknowledgment and Lavinia continues, "Let's see who else is there, who else…"

Mr. Snow and Mrs. Coin step out of the Head Housekeepers sitting room and Lavinia leans over to whisper in my ear. "Now there's an interesting couple. I never know where those two stand with each other. I swear if they didn't run different circles in the house they would be competing with the other. Mrs. Coin is very ambitious for a woman and hard headed enough to challenge Snow when she wants to. We all hear them arguing behind that door sometimes and sometimes I swear I can hear the soft whisper of plotting between them. A lot of us wish we could know if they are friends or enemies because it would make our lives much simpler."

As I look at both of them together I don't see how these two do not get along, they are so similar. The both have a cold, quiet demeanor, and when they are not talking to someone you can almost see behind their eyes the wheels spinning in their heads as they plan something else. I shake my head I shouldn't be thinking these things, I've never even spoken to Mrs. Coin and Mr. Snow has never been unfair to me.

"Who else don't you know," she says almost to herself, "Oh, there's Seneca Crane the valet to his Lordship…and the kitchen staff. Mrs. Sae you've already met and she does her job well and is nice enough even if she does come off as a little aloof at first. There's also Delly who is pleasant as a ray of sunshine and I can't think of anything nasty anyone's ever said about her. Of course there are also scullery maids in the kitchen, but you don't need to worry about them if they stick around they will be promoted to either maid or kitchen assistant and you can get to know them then."

I mentally start sorting people into lists of were they work and what they do in an effort to keep them all straight then I get an idea, "Lavinia, what can you tell me about the Clayworths?"

"Why are you looking for a newspaper story?" She quips. My face falls."Oh, don't look so alarmed I was only teasing." I turn my face into that of a victimized martyr and she about dies laughing. "Alright, alright, I'll tell you all I know if stop making your eyes as big as dinner plates."

It's my turn to laugh now. She starts speaking, "Well, Lord Clayworth is the Earl of the county, as you know, and he likes his food and his hunting parties and that's about all I've ever learned about him. Lady Clayworth is his wife, but you won't see much of her. Their daughter Lady Primrose is one of the reasons I work here though. She is the light of the house and is always up to some good natured project. I swear those cats follow her around because she is one of those people that is almost too good for this earth and not a living thing can resist her."

I now have no doubts on who the little girl was at breakfast and I am glad to know that my first impression of her was not wrong and she really was as pleasant as she seemed. There is still something I need to ask are there any guests, is there anyone else in the family, is this house haunted with a strange specter that bewitches men body and soul?

As if she reads the thoughts I am having she says, "And of course there is Lady Katniss, but I don't think I or anybody else could sum her up."

My spirit rejoices. Katniss, her name Katniss, I want to bury that name deep within me so when they find me a thousand years from now they will find that name carved in my heart. Her name is Katniss. Another thought crosses my mind. "Lavinia, who's lady's maid are you?" There are three Ladies in this house she can't be dressing all of them.

"I dress Lady Katniss and Primrose." She answers simply.

"Then who dress Lady Clayworth? You haven't mentioned another lady's maid." Her eyes drop to the floor and she lets out a sigh."Now that's a dark story–" bells in the kitchen start to chime and cut her off. Her talking switches midstream, "Oh, that's me. I'll talk to you later Peeta."

She scurries off and I realize I have a job to get back to as well. Another interminable hour passes standing watch at a door where no one ever knocks, in a house where no one ever passes by. I start to understand what Lavinia meant when she said you start to notice things after a while. After only one day I feel as if I could identify a single missing thread from the tapestry that covers the wall in front of me.

Another hour passes and I finally get to go back downstairs to retrieve the families tea. I take the silver serving set up to the drawing room and set it down on the table Snow signals to when I walk in, I stand by the side of the server and wait. The room is papered with a soft pink shade that has a gold pattern of what look like wasps to me inlayed on it. All the flowers in the room are pure white roses and I think I have found a running theme that is carried out in all the rooms. The pictures that cover the walls are portraits of happy children and I search for one of Lady Katniss, but don't find one.

Lady Primrose is the first to walk into the room. She has changed clothes into a pale blue dress and if she was one of my cousins I would have made sure to comment on how lovely she looked. The next thing I see causes me to let out an undignified snort of suppressed laughter. I try to pass it off as a sneeze, but from the way Snow is glaring at me I know I did not fool him. I couldn't help it though, following Lady Primrose into the room were her three cats. Each one of them wearing a headband with a single feather sticking up in it, making them look like Indians form the American Wild West.

Lady Clayworth is the next to enter the room. I might be wrong, but she seems frightened to me. Her eyes dart from one corner to the next and it almost appears as if she is biting her lip ever so slightly in dread. Her husband is the next to come into the room. He makes his way straight for the tea and then upon seeing me looked up to say, "We can serve ourselves, Snow."

Mr. Snow gives a curt nod, "As you wish M'Lord." Her then ushers me out of the room and informs me that can stand by the front door in case anyone comes to call. As I stand by the door again I think to myself if my mother pictured this for me. She was so happy three years ago when she learned that Panem was doing away with hall boys and now using only footman. She repeatedly told me how lucky I was that I wouldn't have to spend all my time "lurking in some hallway" and could start off by doing "real work". I think to myself that at least hall boys got to run errands.

The hour drags on and when the clock finally chimes half-past I wonder if I have mastered the art of sleeping while standing up, because I awake almost as if from a dream. My break is finally here and I return to the servants hall. The only person there is Mr. Crane who is sitting at the the end of the table reading the newspaper. Looking at him closely for the first time I realize that he has done something funny with his beard to keep it half way between grown out and clean shaven. Something else about him seems a bit off that I can't put my finger on. I decide against sitting next to him and glance around the hall leading to the servants work room just to check that no one else is here.

For whatever reason I was planning on Lavinia having the same break as me. Now I have no one to talk to and nothing to do. A pleasant hum escapes the kitchen. My face breaks into a smile. Delly, I think.

I poke my head into the kitchen and there she is happy as a lark surrounded by four other girls who are all working at a frantic pace on their separate dishes. This is all very familiar to me after living in a bakery most of my life. Feeling embolden I step into the kitchen. "Delly, I–"

"No, no absolutely not." A sharp female voice cuts in. I turn to find Mrs. Sae standing just behind me as she leaves the pantry. "I will not be having some dandy lollygagging about my kitchen and distracting all the workers. Out now." She points a stiff arm towards the doorway as if I don't know that it is right behind me. To make matters worse Delly's eyes are sparkling with mirth as I am forced to turn tail and leave.

Right outside the doorway as if drawn by some extra sense that is triggered by my every mistake is Mr. Snow. I don't even have a chance to get a word in before he is speaking. "Mr. Mellark, if you have nothing better to do than harass kitchen maids may I advise you to go assist David in shining shoes and at least make yourself useful in some capacity."

This is not advice this is an order. "Yes, Mr. Snow."

My feet reluctantly carry me towards the servants work room and I open the door to find Cato frantically rubbing tallow with a strip of cloth into the black shoe in front of him. He looks at me just long enough to shoot me a nasty glare and then goes back to his frantic pace. I proceed into the room with caution I've never been in here before. The room was once a pale green, but is now much darker, with a streaky pattern that comes with years of neglected water damage. Three black workbenches with various kinds of mismatched chairs are the only furniture in the room.

I need to find my own set of shoes to shine because Cato and I are not exactly in a 'you shine one and I'll shine the other' kind of relationship. I am pleasantly please to find two built in black cabinets in the back corner. One is labeled 'in' and the other 'out'. I open the first cabinet and sitting on a shelf right in front of my nose is a pair of scuffed dress shoes. I gently take them out amazed at how soft the leather is to the touch. Behind the shoes is another jar of tallow and a small, worn rag that is silky to the touch after years of rubbing shinning products into shoes.

I take my items and sit down at the middle table directly across from Cato so I can watch him carefully. I may not like him, but he at least has the advantage of doing this before, while I haven't. I was only a baker's son if my shoes were dirty no one really cared and a fine layer of flour always seemed to coat them anyway.

I observe him for a few minutes and then start. I scrap bits of the crumbling tallow up with my finger nails and then rub it between my hands until it is soft and workable. I smear the contents of my hands on the rag and then stretch the rag over the foot of the toe. I start experimenting with speeds and find that the faster I go the better sheen the shoes give off. I find my rhythm and in what feels like minutes, but might have been hours I have taken the shoes from a dull ash color to a shining onyx. I can almost see my reflection in them. I give the shoes one last once over to ensure perfection and then place them in the 'out' cabinet. There are three other pairs of men's shoes sitting there and I realize that when I was standing watch at the door Cato had been busy.

I am back in the servants hall just in time for the gong to sound. My signal that I need to go upstairs and start setting the table for dinner. Up the endless flights of stairs I go, persistently dodging around other servants all the way up.

I find myself in the dining room standing across the table from Snow as we wait for Cato to arrive. I am grateful that I am not the one who is late this time. The room is royal blue and has a greco roman theme to it. Featured over the fire place is a depiction of Thesues winding his way through the labyrinth, hanging on the wall is a boxed display of Roman coins, and a small marble statue of a nymph sits on an obscure display table in the room.

The room has not escaped the white roses theme and as I look up I find that the chandelier is made of Sicilian blown glass, fashioned to look like hundreds of white roses and green leaves. The real flowers are also in the room: a vase of a side table, live ones wrapt in an ivy pattern around to miniature corinth style columns, and two more vases like the ones at breakfast this morning are set to the side ready to be placed as center pieces once the table is set.

Cato enters the room, to my disappointment he is not reprimanded and we set to work. Since this is the formal dining table it requires two cloths a white starched under one and a decorative over one. It takes four tries to get both cloths even because if you dragged the over cloth across the table at any point it disrupts the under one and we have to start over.

Between Snow's persistent, "This corners too far over," and his, "Now the whole thing is crooked." and of course his,"Wrong, wrong completely wrong, start over." He is explaining to me that when we have guests it is my job to retrieve a hot iron from the kitchen so that each of the two cloths corners can be pressed. In his words it's to prevent the table from being presented in such a "unsightly manor in front of the guests". I almost can't comprehend what he is talking about the table looks breathe taking to me and I can never think of how Chippendale furniture set could ever be unsightly.

We start setting the table and I realize that the table I set this morning was a Sunday stroll compared to this one. In one meal they need three different glasses, well technically one is called a goblet. One for red wine, one for white wine, and one for water. The different kind of silverware is getting muddled in my mind as well, with things like a cheese knife, soup spoon, dessert fork to all keep track of I start getting confused.

"Mr. Mellark what were you thinking setting two knives together? It is knife, spoon, knife, spoon."

"Yes, sir." I move to correct my mistake.

"Mr. Mellark why are the glasses in a row? Form them into a tight triangle, water goblet in the back."

"Yes, sir." I say again.

When the table is finished I want to leap for joy. Why would anyone need so many things just to eat, how many happy meals have I had with only a knife and fork. There is no time for rejoicing now though, I must head back downstairs to get the first course from the kitchen. Cato and I part ways with Mr. Snow, who has gone to inform the family that the meal is ready.

The kitchen sounds like a train station with all the slamming pots and kitchen staff running at a frantic pace. As soon as Delly lays eyes on Cato she has a server of hot soup in his hands and is clucking instructions. "Hurry, hurry. This soup must be served hot."

He gives a grunt to signal that he heard her. Delly comments to me as she presses a covered basket of dinner rolls into my hands, "I don't want the soup to separate and have them calling her 'Greasy Sae' again." I don't even have time to respond before she is giving me my own set of instructions. "Make sure to uncover the basket before you start serving, understood?" I nod grateful for the help.

I arrive back in the dining room just in time to observe the order in which to serve the family. First Lady Clayworth, then her husband, followed by Lady Primrose, and finally Lady Katniss. I am so busy taking notes in my mind that I almost forget to uncover the rolls. I wonder if I am doing something wrong as I serve her Ladyship because her hands are shaking the whole time, from my basket to her plate. Lord Clayworth does not seem to find me a problem and takes three rolls for himself. Lady Primrose gives me a brief smile as I serve her and I find that very nice. I was warned before I started about never expecting a 'thank you' from them because they 'thank me in my wages', but it is still nice to know you are appreciated.

It is now time to serve Lady Katniss and I can almost feel my face blushing as I draw closer to her. As I lean in to offer her my food I am hit with a hearty, earthy smell, which has nothing to do with the leak soup we are serving. She has been in the forest and no one can tell me other wise. The smell of evergreens she is giving off can not come from a perfume bottle. You only get it from climbing wild fur trees and getting the bark underneath your finger nail.

She takes a roll and I cannot linger and am forced to move back. My basket empty I move for the doorway. A hand grabs my arm to stop me. I look up to find Cato. "Not yet." He says through clenched teeth, "Stand in attendance until the course is done, then go get the next dish."

I realize that maybe I judged Cato wrong and follow his directions. Normally it would feel odd to stand by a wall and watch strangers eat, but I am stationed right across from Katniss and I can view her every movement perfectly. She doesn't speak to anyone at the table, just nibbles at her food like a bird, and every once in a while I swear I can see her giving Lady Primrose meaningful glances. I suppress a sigh that seems to have been welling up inside me. Katniss is everything a lady should be above it all and casting a constant haze of mystery.

Courses fly by: salmon mousse, Adriatic figs, chocolate pudding. To me it seems almost as soon as it started it is ending and I am packing up the table with the help of the maids and Cato. When everything is washed, shined, and accounted for by Mrs. Coin. We can finally have our own meal. For some reason I am the only footman in the servant's hall and I know that it is my duty to set the table for the rest of the workers. It is not as large of a job as it might seem because any maid that is off duty starts helping me as soon as they see what I am doing. Everyone is eager to eat.

Lavinia, Cato, and Mr. Snow return and the meal can begin. Lavinia sits next to me again and Mrs. Sae exits the kitchen carrying a steaming pot of lamb stew. Seeing Lavinia reminds me of something and I look up to her to ask. She sees the question in my face before I ask it. "Peeta I know what you are going to ask and I want you to know that we are not going to talk about it here."

I am dumbfounded she is the most astute person I have ever met. "Alright, alright." I concede, "I won't ask that, but do you at least know why Cato wasn't here earlier?"

"Why do you think he left you alone to set the table out of spitefulness?" She is teasing me, but the way she can predict my thoughts is uncanny.

"Don't worry, he wasn't." She continues, "The family requested coffee and it is his job to help serve it."

"Fair enough." I answer.

The meal does not last long, any time between this meal and half past ten is our own and no one wants to waste it. In a steady stream people start to exit and soon Lavinia, Cato, and I are the only ones left.

Cato reaches for some dishes to clear them and Lavinia speaks up. "David, why don't you go collect the shoes for shining and I'll help Peeta clean off the table."

His eyes start shifting before he answers as if looking for some trick we are playing on him. After a long pause he gives a sharp, "Fine." and then leaves. Once he is safely up the stairs Lavinia says, "As soon as the table is cleared we can talk."

I nod in agreement and then set in moving dishes. It is not a very hard task because unlike the upstairs it is not my job to clean them, only to move them into the kitchen and let the scullery maids do the rest.

On my last trip out I see Lavinia wiping down the table with a rag and finishing the job. "Here I have to put this back." She says to me signaling to the rag, "Why don't you lite a candle for us, Mr. Snow gets cross if we waste kerosene sitting up just to chat."

I systematically turn off the gas lamps and then light a single candle for us to talk by, I have always found the light of a real candle more cheerful anyway. Lavinia returns to the room in a solemn mood and sits down across from me. "Peeta before I begin I want you to promise me that what I am about to tell you won't leave this room."

"Alright I promise." She gives me a sharp look disliking my levity. "What I am about to tell you could ruin the family and I need you to know that you have to take this information seriously."

"Alright I promise not to tell anyone, ever. Now tell me who Lady Clayworth's Lady's Maid is."

She is silent for a moment and I can see she is thinking, "It's really not that simple and in order for you to understand I have to start at the very beginning. When Lady Clayworth was sixteen she was universally thought of as the most handsome woman in the county. She was from a well off family and had a large dowery making her the perfect match for Lord Clayworth. They courted and were engaged in a whirlwind and in what seemed like a blink of an eye were married. Things didn't exactly turn out like a fairy story for them, however. She started acting erratically with fits of fidgeting and nervousness. Things got worse and gossips claim that she didn't go on a six month tour of Europe, but actually ran away when she was younger. They say they found her in some Welsh mining town. Lord Clayworth took her back to keep up appearances and to prevent losing her dowry money. Things settled down for a little while and then she became with child." I try not to blush at this information it is not entirely appropriate for me to be thinking of, Lavinia doesn't notice in the dim light.

"That's when she really started to become unhinged and after she had the baby she just fell into a deep despair. Lady Clayworth does not have a proper Lady's Maid. She has a keeper named Enobaria Poole. Lady Clayworth is only let out of her room for meals and the rest of the time she is penned up with that woman, who I wouldn't trust with a dog I liked. That's why Lady Clayworth seems so dreamy, she is completely mad."

Historical Note: Peeta would have never thought of the term Native American at this point in history and it is also important to remember the American West was still being sensationalized at the time. Remember Annie Oakley was running around Europe with Buffalo Bill's Wild West Show and shooting the lit bud off people's cigarette (including Kaiser Wilhelm) at around the same time this story is written.

Author's Note: I like putting a lot of symbolism into my writing, free brownie points to anyone who catches some of it.

Next update: Thursday hopefully


	4. Chapter 3

**All or None**

**Chapter 3**

The rain pelts down outside and the wind is blowing it in a way that causes it to beat against my window. I am awake and my best guess at the time from the slate-gray light that is coming in is that it is around half past five in the morning and I still have an hour to sleep. I watch as the leaking roof forms pictures on my ceiling. Look there's a duck I think to myself and his friend the lion. I smile at my own silly game. The water starts to drip down and ruins my entertainment. I sit up in bed to prevent the water from hitting my feet.

I could get up and get dressed, but I don't want to. I've been at Panem House for three weeks and nothing ever changes: I dress, I eat, I serve, and then I stand by that God forsaken door for hours at a time. In a way I am scared that if I get ready and go downstairs Snow will be waiting for me ready to tell me not to leave the door unattended during 'visiting hours'. I have learned that 'visiting hours' is a very broad term and I could be sent to stand in that blasted hall at anytime of Snow's choosing because of them.

Between these thoughts and the persistent dripping I find myself becoming very irritated. I need to think of something else, something happy, something happy. Katniss. Katniss is my stand by when it comes to thinking of something happy. Even when I think of standing by the door, when I have her as the context it really isn't so dreadful.

I see her sometimes as I stand by the door, as she goes up and down the stairs. She even walked by me once and I am sure she took a brief glance at me, in some capacity she is aware of me. I take little notes about her in my mind: the kind of hat is she wearing, her hair style during the evening meal, the color of her dress. Just thinking of her I can almost smell the scent of evergreens that follows her around persistently. A sigh escapes me, she is the most wonderful and enchanting thing and I can't help but feel that my obsession is justified. The greatest artist study the finest paintings, the most renowned musicians first learned how to play the classic composers, and for my heart to feel the most of all love has to offer I must study Katniss.

Water splashes off my head and I look up to find that the roof has developed another leak. Giving up on any idea of staying in bed I get up and start dressing. Delly will be up soon anyway and I can talk to her as I wait for seven o'clock to roll around. I feel my tie one last time before I walk out the door and think back to all the evenings Lavinia made me tie it again and again until I could do it effortlessly every time.

Down the seven flights of stairs I go and when I enter the servant's hall I can't help but perk up when I hear the familiar movements in the kitchen. I wasn't the only one to get up early. Delly is in the kitchen humming a happy tune when I walk in to see her. I am not surprised to see her, but she is to see me. Her face lights up, "Oh, hello Peeta, I am glad to see that I'm not the only one up and about. I just can't let my self sleep on rainy mornings or else I know I may never get up."

I give her a cynic's smile, what a positive attitude to have instead of thinking about how we have to be up bright and early every day of the year except for Christmas. She thinks of it as a choice she has and does what makes it easiest for her. She dips flour out of a paper sack as she continues to talk about how she likes the sound the rain makes when it hits glass, because she has never heard that until she lived here. She says that the home she lived at before had only open air windows and if it rained they pulled the shutters closed. She breaks two eggs into the batter and a sudden impulsiveness fills me. "Delly, could I do that?"

"Do what?" She asks idly, still going about her business

"Make the biscuits this morning. I just haven't worked with bread in such a long time."

A grin spreads over her face, "If you missed it so much why haven't you asked sooner? Of course you can help me make biscuits, just get an apron out of that cupboard." She nods in the direction of the cabinet she was referring to and I go over to retrieve an apron.

I pull out the first one I lay my hands on and am less than pleased. "Do you have anything a little less… feminine?" I ask as I look it over again.

Delly looks up, "What's wrong with that one, it's only white. It's not like there are frills and lace on it."

"It's tapered at the waist." I say defending my position.

She rolls her eyes before she starts giggling, "Oh Peeta, stop being so silly about this we're the only ones here. I won't tell anyone I promise."

"What if Cato comes down?" He would never let me forget if he caught me wearing a scullery maid's apron. In three weeks Cato hasn't warmed up to me at all and my feelings towards him have remained the same. We have an unspoken agreement to never talk to each other unless absolutely necessary and prefer to co-exist in silence when possible.

"If you would just put the apron on you could be done with it before he even comes down. Now hurry up."

I begrudgingly tie the apron on realizing that she is right and if I would just start now I could have my cake and eat it too. I step behind the counter and set in on making the dough. It surprises me how naturally it still comes: a dash of salt here, a good amount of buttermilk there, the smallest dribble of honey for flavor. I start mixing them together happy with my work when Delly interrupts, "Don't over handle the dough or it will get too tough."

I give her a don't-treat-me-like-a-child look and we both end up laughing together. "Right, right your a baker's boy." She says as she wipes tears away from her eyes from giggling so long.

The biscuits are in the oven and baking and I am getting ready to enter Mrs. Sae's room with a tray in what feels like a blink of an eye. I enter the sad, little room again and drop the tray down while thinking about the breakfast I will be having in a few moments. She smile's her eyes closed as if she is still asleep. "You didn't hesitate this time." She says with the ghost of a smile on her face.

"Maybe I am getting better." I respond in the spirit of good nature.

"Maybe." She answers while sitting up in bed.

My meal is hot and ready for me on the counter when I step out and I begin my morning ritual of eating alone in the servant's hall. I have never noticed until today that Cato does not eat with me. I wonder if he eats breakfast at all or if he is too busy trying to earn the favor of Snow. I break the bread I made and bite into it. The biscuit tastes identical to the ones my father makes which is a blessing and a curse. I can almost feel his presence in the room from the flavor concealed within, and this leads to deep pang of homesickness. Why did I leave home for this?

"Mr. Mellark," Snow's voice says cutting into my internal remorse. I should be worried he has not called me Mr. Mellark in over a week.

"Mr. Mellark, earlier this morning Mr. Crane was dressing his Lordship for a trip to London. When packing Lord Clayworth's best shoes as requested he found this." I look up to find the shoes I had polished days ago in Snow's hands; his index finger pointing to a thin white scar in the leather like someone ran a pin over it.

"Can you explain this Mr. Mellark? Snow's says as his cold eyes already confirm he thinks he has the answer and whatever I say will not change his mind.

Of course I could say the truth that Cato did this. He did it so that I would look incompetent and he could help ensure I wouldn't challenge him for first footman as I got better at my job, but I don't think that excuse would get me anywhere. I bite my lip as I try and think of an answer to give him, but nothing comes.

"Well Mr. Mellark…" Those eyes how I hate those eyes they make you feel so small and weak.

"I don't know, sir, I don't know how it happened." I finally say.

His lips form form up into a mocking grin and his eyebrows drift towards his hairline. "You don't know, well I do. This sort of thing never happened when other footmen were here or while Cato has been employed here. You must have done this." He concludes and then the quiz begins, "What kind of rag did you use?"

"The one that is always in the cabinet."

He gives me a skeptical eye, "Are you sure, not the one left in the hall by the maid who had to clean up the crushed glass? It would have been right on your way to the work room."

"No sir, I used the one by the tallow as always."

"Hmm, yes, the tallow. Did you use tallow or did you purchase one of those new shoe cleaners that they are selling in the village? Did you think that factory made rubbish would give you an advantage?"

The man is absolutely mental. I wonder to myself what would have happened if I just said 'yes, I scratched it on accident', but there is no going back now.

"No sir, I used the tallow that was in the cabinet."

"Did you use some new tool?"

"No sir."

"Was it stained? Did you try and scratch the blemish off?"

"No sir."

"Did you ask someone else to do this? Fall behind in your work and need a hand? I've seen you be quite friendly with that kitchen maid. Did she do this, is that why you don't know?" While his tone of voice never changes his expression is becoming more manic and it becomes obvious that he will stop at nothing short to prove that this is somehow my fault. An idea comes upon me.

"Maybe they were scratched inside the cabinet." I offer.

"What?" Being pulled away from his train of thought confuses him for a moment, but only a moment.

"By a loose nail or something."

"Ah," He thinks he has caught me, "so you admit that you scratched them on something inside the cabinet."

I proceed with caution while I answer him, "I never said that sir. Maybe I did scratch them as I put them in or maybe the person who took them out did." I meet his eyes with a steady gaze. He can't prove or disprove that I did anything and he knows it too.

He is quiet for a long moment and then finally answers me, "This is true Mr. Mellark. However it is my job to see that it never happens again." It is clear that he still doesn't think I am innocent.

I still meet his eyes now is not the time to show any fear, "I will do everything in my power to make sure it never does."

"Good." He says and then turns to leave before I have a chance to say anything else. I got his goat this time, but am starting to realize that I might be making enemies that are bigger than Cato in this house.

I glance up at the clock. I am already running late and am forced to leave my meal to get cold on the table.

I stare down at the blank paper below me. I haven't written home once in all the time that I have been here. I know Dad doesn't want a letter from me he wants me to come home, and what do I say to my mother 'things are going great I won't have to join the navy after all'. That is what she was always saying to me, that if I couldn't make it serving as a butler I might as well join up because I wasn't welcome back home and would be no good to anyone as long as I lived.

It annoys me that Cato is scratching away with his pen at his own sheet of paper, though I doubt he is writing to his home with the way he is smiling to himself. I've suspected for a while that he has been writing to Glimmer which aggravates me even more. His girl is so attainable. I can hear her giggling and chattering with her friend Clove through the wall next to me. The person I love is much more distant, like loving a far off star. So visible, yet so unattainable.

She looked miraculous in her mid-day clothes today, I remember clearly she was the only person to pass by me. She wore a shiny, plum colored dress with a cream hat that had a matching ribbon. An idea strikes me and I start making marks on the page. I want to capture the way she looked today forever, so that when I am one hundred years old I can look back at this picture and recall it exactly. My hand starts moving on what feels like its own accord and I start making the basic lines of her dress and her stance. I want her to be coming down the stairs. A sudden longing for something that will add color fills me, but all I have is a black pen that will have to do.

Things start falling into place. I add details: a loose strand of hair here, the picture on the wall behind her roughly outlined, a chip on the banister under her hand. In what feels like only a moment it is done. I look over my work and am disappointed. There is nothing wrong with the picture per se, but the girl in the picture is missing that distinctive 'Katniss' look to her. I study every inch of the page trying to determine what I have done wrong, but have no idea where the mistake lies. Maybe it's that I couldn't capture her gray eyes exactly in such a small space, or maybe it is because it is only black and white, but something is definitely off about it. The girl in the picture is beautiful, but she is not Katniss.

Looking up I see that Cato is still hard at work with his writing and I realize that under no circumstances can he ever find this. I open the drawer in the side table next to me where up until now I have been keeping a spare pair of socks. I switch the socks and the picture out as quickly as possible and then glance up to see if he has noticed. He hasn't and I hold in a sigh of relief. I pull on the socks to keep up the act and then crawl underneath my covers. I don't begrudge that Cato wants to stay up and write, when we have so little free time, so I cover my face with my pillow to shut out the golden light and then drift off to sleep. Tonight I will see Katniss again in that purple dress and it will be almost better than the real thing.

I light what feels like my thousandth candle for that night and extinguish the last match they have given me. I find it humorous that they even ration matches here. The family is having a dinner party tonight and the whole staff is being overworked. I am simultaneously expected to serve dinner and ready the parlor room for dancing.

Cato pokes his head into the room and I know I have to go out to help serve again. He has been bobbing his head in and out all night to signal me and I have long since stopped apologizing to the maids every time I have to leave the room.

Cato has been having to bring both dishes up the stairs and he has my dish set on the wooden server for me when I walk into the dining room. I pick up the bread rolls even if my spirit is unwilling to linger in this room one more moment than necessary. These feeling have nothing to do with the work I am leaving undone in the parlor and every thing to do with Katniss being seated next to a Mr. Hawthorne.

She has been whispering secrets back and forth with him all night and her face looks almost red to me. I want to pretend that she is hot from the room being stuffed with sixteen people, but even I cannot deceive myself to that extent.

If I was a nasty person I would almost despise him for nothing else other than him making her seem so happy. In all my time at the house only Prim has ever made her seem so lighthearted and she is not even here tonight. I almost feel a physical pain in my chest when I watch them together. How many times have I made her laugh in my mind? How many times in my imagination have I been with her when she casts off her veil of sorrow and lets me see the real her. It is almost too much.

The last roll is past out and I must leave the room again. I will not have to return again. Cato will be handling the dessert. Back in the parlor I help the maids carry out the Turkish carpet and place it in the breakfast room where we will temporarily be holding it for the night. They are all amazed that I can carry it on my own, but I don't mind. Somehow keeping busy helps numb the pain I feel inside.

I then direct the string quartette into the room and then continue going about my business. It seems to me that almost as soon as the strings are fully tuned the guest start making their way in, causing the maids to flee out of the room before anyone sees them as if the work being done by a real person is a secret that must remain hidden. I stand attendance by a wall and wait patiently for any orders anyone might have.

No one seems to notice me and the dancing starts. Lord and Lady Clayworth lead and are followed by Katniss and Mr. Hawthorne. Other couples fill the dancing space, but there are only two dancing partners my eyes follow. They are so evenly matched and this grieves me. They have the same eye color, their hair is the same raven black, and their skin is the same hearty brown. They are a perfect set, two carriage horses couldn't look more similar than them. Then again all sets don't have to match when a person brings up salt the next thing most people's minds go to is pepper. Sometimes the contrast between two things makes them more perfect for each other because they bring out the best in what the other has to offer.

They dance two more dances together and then Katniss retreats to the edge of the room to talk to a Miss Undersee for the rest of the evening. I am in awe how it completely escapes her that she has captivated every man in the room. Mr. Hawthorne never takes his eyes off of her as he stoically nurses his drink in the corner of the room and the rest of the men are left to orbit around her coming close to observe, but never taking the final leap to dance with her.

How foolish they are I think to myself. What I would give to even have one dance with her. I almost hear my spirit weeping I am so close to a dance with her and yet I am still an eternity away. Any other man in this room could have her because they were born into money and wearing a nice suite; well I love her which is better than all the money in the world and I feel that my livery is a nice enough suite for her. I let these flights of fantasy continue for the rest of the dancing and into the evening as I help serve coffee to the guests.

Some time well past midnight the guest finally start to drift upstairs to get some rest. I notice that Katniss and Mr. Hawthorne disappear at the same time, but I must not let my imagination get the better of me. After a short time the room is empty and the staff starts cleaning up. The dishes are the first thing to go they must be cleaned and accounted for before anyone can go to bed. We must then let the quartet pack up and after that we have all the furnishings to put back into place.

I am sent to retrieve the rug and go back to the breakfast room where I left it. I check the time on the grandfather clock and regret it. The time is well past two o'clock in the morning. I place my hand on the door handle to the room and then stop. I swear I can hear music behind it and soft jazz music at that. I feel like I shouldn't go in there, like I would be disturbing something, but I have no choice Mr. Snow will be in no mood to tolerate my tardiness.

I swing the door open to get it over with and my heart sinks to the floor. There in the middle of the room, dancing to the music of the gramophone, are Katniss and Mr. Hawthorne. Her arms are draped over the neck and her movements are so subtle they barely stir the lacy details of her juniper green dress. Their noses are pressed together and the way he looks at her I know I have lost the moral high ground of 'I love her and they do not'.

Their eyes both dart to me at the same time and I am at a loss of what to say. I decide against even uttering a word and gather the carpet and leave. I don't know how they reacted to my intrusion I couldn't look at either one of their faces as I left.

The maids and the foot men put in fifteen minutes of hard work and the room is finally returned to it's normal state. The kitchen and the servant's hall are in an absolute scramble when I come down and a bowl of broth and a slice of bread are being handed out as people arrive. I check the time as I take the food. It is just a few minutes shy of three. Lavinia is not down here and I assume she won't be down for a long while with all the guests she may be having to help.

I hear arguing coming from the stairwell and look over to find Mrs. Coin and Mr. Snow talking together. Mr. Snow has a fat envelope in his hands and is shaking it whenever he makes a point.

"You see this is why we should have never done away with the hall boys. What are we to do now with all the guests I can't spare a single staff member and he insists it is urgent."

Mrs. Coin's eyes narrow, "We ridded ourselves of the hall boy system because it was outdated and costing the household needless money. We can find someone else to do it surly."

While Mr. Snow counters her point, my mind is busy at work as I realize there might be an opportunity here for me. I need to make up for the shoe incident and doing a favor for either one of them might help my cause.

"Excuse me," I interrupt, "but I was wondering what you are talking about?"

Both give me an identical what's-it-to-you look. Snow is the one to answer me, "Lord Undersee insisted that this," his free hand gestures to the envelope in his other hand, "be delivered to the post as soon as possible tomorrow morning. He has insisted that it is urgent, however we have no staff we can spare at this time making it a difficult situation."

"Well I could take it." This is exactly the thing I had been hoping for. It won't even be that much work.

Snow is not as pleased and gives me a patronizing smile, "Don't be silly. You must be up and ready even earlier than usual to have the table set. We'll have to find someone else." He gives a slight nod as if to dismiss me, but I insist. "I am not being silly. I wake up every morning at half past four and if I leave then I can be back in plenty of time to set the table and serve breakfast."

"The post doesn't open until seven. It won't do any good."

"My families bakery is next door I can leave it with one of my brothers and they will have it in at seven o'clock sharp." Snow looks as if he is getting ready to disagree with me until I find an unlikely ally.

"Then it is settled." Mrs. Coin says. She has a faint impish grin on her face as she takes the letter from him and hands it to me.

Author's Note: Please, please, please review.


	5. Chapter 4

**All or None**

**Chapter 4**

I pull on my plain, brown pair of walking shoes by candle light and then wiggle my toes once both feet are inside them. They feel so foreign to me even though they are two years old. I haven't worn them in weeks. I am dressing in the servant's hall I didn't want to wake Cato up with my movements he had a later night than most, staying up to polish all the guest shoes so that they would be ready when they woke up in the morning. I don't worry about being discovered here everyone has had a late night, not that I haven't. I just have the feeling that somehow I would be awake now anyway.

I feel a twinge of pain inside me and my mind's eye replays the scene I witnessed last night again. The memory is painfully crisp and it is like I am living it all over again. I can see their steady gaze meeting each others, his arms clinging to her waist, her lips curved up like she had just whispered some delicious secret. For as long as I live I never want another living creature to feel the anguish I feel when I think back on that moment.

I start moving around the hall; I can't just sit here I don't have time and my spirit can't take it. I need to get to work and get my mind off things. At the entrance of the back door hangs a lantern. I am debating with myself whether to take it out or not. The sky still looks as black as pitch to me, but I know morning is coming. An idea strikes me and I open the door to listen. The larks are singing it won't be long until day break. I decide against the lantern and start on my way.

My first few steps are cautious as I get my bearings in the darkness. The pea gravel of the drive sloshes and scatters with every step and I think if anyone saw me they would think I looked like a new born colt as I take large and then haltering steps as I try and determine where the lane is. Right when I think I have finally found it I misplace my foot and end up falling face down in the soaking wet lawn. I scramble back up to my feet and can feel the prickly sensation of loose grass covering my clothing. I am not worried about this however I am more concerned about the letter I am delivering.

It is still too dark to see if I have damaged it in the fall and I am worried. The edges still feel crisp to the touch, but there is still no guaranteeing that it doesn't have water stains on it. Back on the path I start moving across it instead of down it as I use my feet feet to search for something. I know it when I step on it the gravel doesn't give way here, it is hard packed and cemented with mud. It's the rut the tires from the cars made yesterday and I can follow this until it is light enough to see without worrying about losing my footing again.

It is as simple as one foot in front of the other while I wait for the world to change, and it does. The edges of the Eastern sky turn from black to charcoal, from charcoal to slate, and from slate to silver. Pink and purple lines dash through the sky and highlighting every cloud and I know morning has finally come. In the early light I pass the kept green lawn and my path is soon surrounded by heather, wild sage, and tall unkempt grasses. Late summer wild flowers peek out and add brilliant spots of color to the brush and I know I am finally leaving the grip of Panem House.

Beyond this is the old forest that surrounds the house's grounds. It's chock full of oak tree, with an occasional fir tree, and underbrush covers the rest. All the empty spaces are covered with a soft veil of mist and I can feel my skin cool as I walk in among the trees. The path leads through about a mile of the forest and then it is another mile before I reach my village. I will have walked a little less than five miles before I have my breakfast if every thing goes the way I have planned.

Goldfinches and blackbirds dot every branch of the forest, and two merry robins flit from tree to tree in a jovial dance. I like it here I spent most of my time growing up in the village, especially the bakery and am slowly realizing how many varied parts of life I have ended up missing. Baking is like dairy farming, a profession you are tied to. When you are not baking you are selling, when you are not selling you are sleeping, and when you are not sleeping you are baking.

My mother forbade us from ever going on any kind of holiday ever. She did not understand taking time off to do nothing but 'spend money you could be saving'. The longest amount of time anyone was ever off was two weeks, and that was when my oldest brother nearly died of typhoid at thirteen. I swear he got worse because she wouldn't let him stay in bed until he collapsed on the floor sweating and shaking.

My mother has always been silly about the lengths she would go to in order to earn money and this is the only thing about her I can feel I fully understand. I even feel I know the root of her obsession. Her twin brother.

When he was nineteen a friend and he speculated their way into a small fortune. My father always informed us privately that he just got lucky and fell into the money, but my mother would never realize this. She became jealous of him, she was always the clever twin. The one with he best marks at the schoolhouse, who was going to move away to London and become rich and never have to worry about anything again.

From what I can piece together her mother insisted that she marry my father when she was eighteen and give up on all her dreams. Her mother thought that she had waited to marry long enough and that it was pure silliness to think that a woman could make a living for herself without a man. In less than six months her brother had moved away to London and had apparently made enough money to start running in the same circles as the debutants.

I think somehow in my mother's mind she thinks if she can manage to have the bakery make enough money she could still leave this life and start a new one. She could still have dreams. If there ever was enough money for this I wouldn't have been surprised if she went missing in the night with all the profits. She never wanted this life with my father, my brothers, and the bakery. Her mind had always been focussed on a future with so much more.

A doe crosses my path. Her ears smooth back and then flick forward. Her pure black eyes stare into mine and there is a mutual understanding. She is a wild thing who rejoices in her freedom in the woods and I am a village boy who grew up soft and will never understand her. With her long, sleek neck and athletic build she is Katniss feral with freedom and absolutely unattainable.

I wince and the doe bolts into the underbrush. I shouldn't have thought of that; I shouldn't have thought of her. As I pulled on my clothes this morning I had made a promise to myself not to think about her anymore and now I had broken it for the tenth time. I needed to come to terms with the fact that we ran in different circles, circles that would never collide. I would risk my heart by loving her every day, because every day could be the one that the happy marriage of Lady Katniss and Mr. Hawthorne could be announced.

I have never felt the same way about another person as I have felt about Katniss. Then again I have never felt the same way about a person like Mr. Hawthorne. In my life I have disliked nasty people, hated the school yard bullies, and loathed those who take advantage of the weak. I feel none of these things towards Mr. Hawthorne, yet the emotion is strong, maybe even stronger than any of these things. It is envy.

I want to be him more than anything. Not for his fine looks, or his wealth, or his stoic nature, but because he gets to have Katniss. He gets to sit next to her at evening meals, and share private jokes that make her give a shadow of a smile, and participate in private midnight dances where they can embrace in silence. I will never know these things, but I long to. I long to speak to her, to make her smile, and cause her cheeks to tinge red when she sees me. I dream of running off with her on a fine spring morning and seeing the world and all of its wonders with her by my side. I wish for her to fall asleep in my arms every night and awake to her gray eyes every morning.

I sigh there are things that cannot be. Things that are so beautiful they wound you; and these thoughts are nothing but my painful imaginings.

The forest starts to thin and I rise up over a hill and can see all the roofs of the village below me. The light is soft and I realize that I am running late. A mile to go and I need to hurry. I start running down the hill in order to make time, loose stone flying underneath my feet. As the air fills my lungs I start feeling better. I can't remember the last time I ran like this. Probably not since I left school, and that was two years ago.

White washed homes and thatched roofs pass in a blur and soon enough the bakery is in sight. I try at the handle, but the door is locked. I am sure they are all probably still in the kitchen. I pound at the door and then lean against the siding as I wait. I ran too hard, it was probably because I felt like for a moment I was leaving all my problems behind, and for a moment I needed the relief.

I knock again when no one comes and this time I hear yelling from within. My mother's shrill shrieks come first, followed by my father's complaints for her not to wake the neighbors. She screams back an answer and I can almost hear my father mumbling under his breath that it is better to live on the roof of a house than inside with a vindictive woman.

The door creeks open and my older brother Marc steps out. He wipes off his flour and dough coated hands on his apron and looks up at me with a grim look. He wants me to speak first.

"What's that all about?" I ask gesturing to the sound of shouting.

He doesn't find it mildly humorous like I do and chews his lip before asking, "Have you been sacked, Peet?"

Out of all the things I would think he'd say next this was not one of them, "No. Why?" I ask with confusion.

"Because that's what they are shouting about. Mum started screaming as soon as we heard the knock on the door. Said you had been sacked less than a month in and that you weren't welcome back. Dad started saying that she shouldn't say things like that and that if you needed work we could find some for you here and that you could come home where you belonged. She's really upsetting him now, Dad seemed on the brink of tears when I left." I know Marc is mad at me for upsetting the peace and he looks at me like I should be. I remain silent I have nothing to say that I won't regret later.

"Why are you here, Peet?" He says after he realizes that I am not going to answer him.

"To deliver this." I say flashing the envelope right under his nose. I hate how he always makes everything seem like it's my fault. "I said I could get someone to post it in the village so that no one would have to miss work." I offer it to him with a stiff hand. "Do you think you could manage that?" He takes it from my hand and nods.

"Right then." I say.

His identical blue eyes stare into mine and I can't read his, but I don't care. I pull down the front and back edges of my cap, "Well tell them family I have a job to get back to and that things are going well. I'll see you when I can." I walk off without another word, I can't stand it. I just can't stand it. Four people in my family and not one of them assumed I kept my job. Every last one of them thought I was coming back for charity and the debate was whether I would get it or not.

The dynamics of my family have been a mess since my oldest brother John got sick. He was the oldest, the chosen one, so to speak. He was the one who would inherit everything and run the bakery. That was what my parents always planned on anyway. When he became sick ideas started to shift; they thought he might die. During some of his darker hours the family got use to the idea that Marc would be the one to inherit and take over the bakery. They taught him skills that they had only shown John and he learned quickly.

John recovered, but never fully. The typhoid left him in a weakened state and he has always been shorter and more frail than Marc and me. Marc was a real sport in helping John get back on his feet and helping him live a somewhat normal boyhood. That's when my parents started talking about maybe two could run the bakery and they could rely on each other. John would inherit everything by birthright and Marc could help with the physically demanding aspects of the work. Together they would make the perfect team. A team that could not accommodate three.

During the time of John's illness was when everyone demanded that I start to 'grow up'. My mother wanted me to work more hours and the bakery, my father wanted me to be a better brother to John, and Marc wanted me to never cry, always work, and never be underfoot. I was seven years old.

I kick a stone in front of me as hard as I can. I want some happiness for once. The forest closes in around me again and I enjoy the solitude. There are no demanding parents here, no busy house work to be done, and no unattainable girl. Just me and my thoughts. Tree after tree, step after step the solitude passes and I reach the edge of the woods and stop.

Panem house is in sight and I will soon have to return to my daily grind, without hope of change ever. I wish I could stand here forever, it is such a glorious morning to be missing anyway. A thin covering of mist has crept out of the forest and blanketed the surrounding flatland. The sunrise is late enough that all of its miraculous colors are gone, but it is still casting a steady early morning light. The surroundings feel so secluded in a setting like this, like you are the only living soul in the world.

Pheasants burst forth from forest brush and the tranquillity has been disturbed. Then through the mist a figure is running, breaking free of the woods. The light fog contrasts her black hair and her scandalous length of dress frees her athletic legs. It's Katniss.

Katniss, my heart leaps to my throat. Is she in trouble? Is she hurt? She is running from the forest, did someone take her there? If I find out that any person laid a hand on her I will… I will…

Right as I was formulating my revenge plan she leaps into the air, spins, and then continues running. She is not tormented at all, only a wild thing rejoicing. The fog thickens and she is gone, but what a haunting image she leaves.

This is the moment I know that I have seen the real Katniss. Not the proud, silent Lady Katniss, but the Artemis dashing from the woods. She is a wild deer, a care free creature, and a child of the woods. That is why she is a paradox to Panem House; she doesn't belong there.

I re-watch the image again and again in my mind wanting to brand it there so that I never forget the exact way the mist moved around her or one stray hair on her head. In some ways the exercise is useless. How could I ever forget the day a goddess became human to me?

The pen drips ink onto the paper below me ruining it. Not that it was much to ruin anyway. I crumple it up in frustration. It was the fourth time I tried to depict Katniss running through the fog this morning and a miserable failure like all the others. There was something almost spiritual about that moment and these feeble depictions feel almost like blasphemy.

I look at the abused wad of paper in my hand and start working it out into a flat sheet again. It's not so bad from an artistic view of it. The lines of the grass could have been improved, and her pose is awkward and unbalanced. It is worth saving even if it isn't right and I open my side table drawer.

I now have a small collection of Katniss drawings all of different things: one of her from the night she had peacock feathers in her hair, another one of just her head and neck, and now four slightly damaged ones of her running out doors. There are about ten in total, but none of them are her. They are all missing a certain undiscovered element that would make them Katniss and not just another pretty girl. I place my latest drawing with the others and then debate whether to try again or not. Cato has not come up yet and I might still have time.

I decide against it. I have not slept much in the past two days and I feel that my time is better spent resting than creating another failed drawing. I weaken the gas flame to leave Cato some light to see by and then close my eyes. My consciences fades from the world around me and soon I am asleep.

Mist surrounds me and I am an island in a sea of thick fog. The ground beneath me is black and obscure. There are no other objects around me no matter which way I turn and I wonder if this is a vision of hell or maybe what the Catholics call purgatory. I start running trying to find something, anything, a tree, a rock, another thing that would prove that I am not the only thing in existence in this realm. Nothing appears and I feel that I pass miles and I feel I pass miles to no avail.

I stop and spin where I am standing there is nothing absolutely nothing. I am desperately and completely alone. "Help!" I cry out again and again. No one comes no one hears. My voice disappears into the smoke and is gone. I feel like dropping to my knees in anguish when I hear it. A light laugh like birdsong. I am not alone.

There is movement behind the mist and someone pinches my ear. I turn to see who it is, but am only met with their laughter. The noise fades and I realize they are moving away. I have to follow it. I can't be alone again. As I draw closer they know I am following them and start circling around me as I run, always just out of sight.

They pinch my arm and give more peels of laughter and start to run again. I follow. This time they stay closer I can feel their presence leaping around me and their laughter is closer. I never see them, but occasionally they reach through the fog to poke or pinch me. I don't mind it is all in good fun and they are leading me somewhere.

The haze starts to thin and the gray cool light is replaced with a golden tone. Morning is coming. I am almost free of it now I can feel it. The end is in sight I am almost there. I break through the world turns to beautiful, yellow light and I feel a single kiss pressed up against my cheek. I am free.

The mist is no more and I am in the forest again at dawn. I know these trees I saw them only yesterday and I know I will be alright. My vision now free to observe my surroundings I search for the person in the fog. I would still be in it if it wasn't for them and I owe them a great deal.

"Hello." I call out, "Hello." There is no answer for a moment then I am met with more giggling. They are just behind a mulberry bush and I run towards it. Birds scatter as I run through it, but they are not there. "Hello." I try again. They twitter with joy, just beyond the tree line. I follow it again. In the grove of pine trees I still do not see them. "Where are you?" I call. I want to see them. I want to thank them. A pine cone whizzes past my ear and I look up.

My eyes flash open and I am in my own bed, coated in sweat. The bed covers are all twisted around my legs from thrashing around and I am still breathing heavily. I know this time of morning well it is a quarter to five and I use to wake up to it every day to work. None of this matters to me though. I am focused on my dream.

That dream had meaning and it is not hard for me to work out. Katniss was the one leading me. I wouldn't have been sure except she brought me to the forest. She wants me to go to her forest.

I look over at Cato. He is still asleep, his mouth hanging open and as he drools on his own pillow. I could do it. I could slip away to the forest and meet her there. I make up my mind and start untangling myself from the covers. This morning will be the morning I meet Lady Katniss of Panem House.

Author's Note: Please review they encourage me to work faster and real life has been kind of rough on me the past few weeks. Even a little comment means a lot to me.


	6. Chapter 5

**All or None**

**Chapter 5**

I pull on a pair of trousers and leave on my pajama shirt. I am in a hurry. I have no idea when Katniss comes to the forest or how deep she travels, but I want to be there to give myself the biggest window of opportunity I can. I am surprised at how much energy I have, and feel almost giddy with excitement. It's like the very idea of seeing her is giving me strength.

I can't explain why, but I am full of faith that today will be the day we meet. The day things turn around for me and start working in my favor. I turn the handle to my room at an excruciating pace in order to make no noise. In the hall every floor board seems to creek and all my steps seem to echo. It's funny how yesterday I did not mind making a little noise, nothing impolite or over the top, it's just if I sneezed or something I didn't really think too much about it. Now that I can't be caught every sound I make seems more intense.

The stairs never seemed so squeaky. My footfalls never so loud. I force myself to move faster I will waste all my time on the staircase and never make it to the woods at all if I keep up this pace. I rationalize with myself that I am two flights away from the upstairs bedroom and three flights away from the servant's hall. I try to tip-toe, but livery shoes were not meant for sneaking around. In a moment of bitterness I wonder if this was done so servants could not go undetected from their masters, but this seems a little paranoid.

Step after step I go down until I am one flight above the servant's hall. I pause about to sigh in relief, but stop. I hear the clanking and clanging of kitchen crockery and pans traveling up the stairwell and I almost slap my forehead in frustration. Delly is in the kitchen. She would have had to get up early to fix a large breakfast for the guests last day here.

Delly is a wonderful girl and I like her a lot. I would even dare to call her one of my friends, but I can't let her see me go out. There isn't a person alive who would understand me and no way I can think of to explain. They wouldn't even believe the premise of my story if I tried, 'Oh yes, the oldest daughter of the house runs about the forest before sunrise in nothing, but a shift and I would like to see her'. They would all think that I was a liar, or mad, or something even worse. I would lose my job over it.

Wouldn't that be something standing on my parent's doorstep with a carpet bag while saying, "Yes mother I threw away a month of hard work and training over chasing a girl I could never have. Oh, why did I do it? Well you see I had this dream. Now will you please take me in or at least give me a little food for the journey, the naval base is a far stretch off." That would be worse than the opinions of those who work with me because my family would be right.

Right about how I couldn't keep this job. Right about me being silly over stupid things like love. Right about how they would eventually have to decide wether to throw me out or let me live on their charity. I can't let anyone see me. It would be the ruination of me.

I slink down the stair wall until I am at the perfect angle to see Delly working in the kitchen, yet I can hide from plain view if need be. She is kneading dough currently. Her hands pulling up on the far edges only to push them down in the middle, flatten it, and then repeat the process. She is focused on her work, but I don't know if she is concentrating enough to allow me to slip past the doorway undetected.

I am glad that I decided against starting she finishes her kneading and drops it into a bowl to let it rise. She is a fast worker in the kitchen and has more ingredients ready in a flash. I have no idea what she is making, but watch as she takes the brown rapping paper off of a piece of fresh, red meat. She turns her attention to another dish and starts breaking eggs into a bowl. Her hand brushes up against a stray one and it rolls off onto the floor.

This is my chance as she bends down to clean up the mess I make a dash for the door. It wasn't the best thought out plan and I realize I am making a lot of noise as I sprint by. I reach for the door handle to throw the door open and nearly hit my head against it. The door is locked and my hands are almost shaking as I undo the bolt.

I break into the free morning air and it feels like my heart is in my throat. My ears are burning red with the increased activity and the thought that Delly probably saw me. I can't think of any of this now I need to get off the gravel drive. The sky is almost as dark as it was yesterday when I headed out, but I can make out the faint outline of things.

I start making my way towards the grass field. I feel that people are less likely to look out the window and see me if I am off the beaten trail. I stop one step short of the grass line and hesitate. I was too hasty in my planning this morning and didn't think this through. I am wearing my nice shoes and the field is wet with morning dew. I doubt the moister will ruin them, but if I walk across the lawn in them they will undoubtedly be covered in grass and people will take notice.

I have to take them off. As I squat down and start undoing the laces I try to remind myself that my father didn't have his first pair of shoes until he was twelve. I rationalize that if he could run around without shoes for over a decade I can walk through one grassy field barefoot.

I stand up and remove the first shoe and sock. I put my foot back down and immediately have to jump into the grass; the gravel is too sharp to stand on. Once both shoes are off I stuff the socks inside them, then tie the laces together and sling them onto my shoulder.

The grass is lovely to walk through I can hardly remember the last time I did it. It is like a thick, silken rug and the water swishes between my toes every time I put my weight down. I am almost sad when I come to the brush that edges the forest. I love the freedom I feel on the lawn and in many ways wish I could run down the edge of forest and feel all that there is to feel, and rejoice in the freedom of the early morning.

I keep my feet where they are I am not here to do that. I am here for entirely different reasons. I set my thoughts to studying the undergrowth in front of me trying to determine where Katniss emerged from yesterday. I have no guarantee that she will use the same path as she did yesterday, but it is at least a start.

I cannot be certain, but I think she was standing farther away from the road. She seemed smaller, phantom-like, almost a wisp. I take the steps over to where I have decided to start and plunge in with no hesitation, which I would later regret.

The brambles and the thorns cut and tear at my feet. Every step is agony and I still have a small bar of thorns stuck to the bottom of my foot. I break for a patch of soft, black dirt and inspect them. I lean up against an ancient oak that seems so old you could believe King Arthur planted it and make my assessment. They are cut and bleeding. The tops of them have small lacerations and the bottoms wide gaping tears.

I can't put my feet back into my shoes in this condition. I need to do something, but I can't think of what. The question seems so simple, yet my mind keeps drawing blank thoughts. After an unreasonable amount of time it occurs to me what I need. Water. I could rinse them off. How to get it was the next question I had to answer. There was a hand pump by the house, but that meant taking another shoeless stroll through the field of thorns, which I would rather lose my job than do.

I can't understand why I cannot think of any other alternatives. I am in a deep forest the original home of man; I should be able to come up with something. A voice in the back of my mind finally yells at me, 'You need to find a stream you dunce!' It is so simple I am glad that no one is around to see my mental feebleness.

I listen for water, but can't distinguish any there are too many other noises. Birds chirping, crickets humming, water running. Water running. What a fool I am in nature. I tilt my head to the side and listen as hard as I can, and sure enough there is the soft gurgling in of a stream in the background. I can follow the noise until I find water, I know that much at least. The first step I take is full of searing pain and I remember that I forgot to remove the bar of thorns from my foot. I lean up against the tree again and turn up the bottom of my foot. Grabbing either edge of the bar between my thumb and forefinger I pinch and pull up. Removing it is full of a burning stinging sensation, but at least it is gone.

I start my short journey again trying to make sure I keep to the soft dark earth in order to avoid any other hazards. Just over a small hill is a gurgling stream with a black rock bottom. It does not appear to be very deep and the water skids off some of the taller rocks creating white marks. In a mixture of a tumbling running motion I proceed down the slope towards the water and dip my feet in.

It is a combination of pleasure and agony. The water is frigid which feels wonderful on my cut and bleeding places, but it stings my undamaged skin and I am scared that it is going to make that skin raw. I slosh back to the bank making sure that every inch of my trousers is thoroughly wet from ankle to knee.

I spy a moss covered rock that I think is the perfect height for me to sit on and still be able to dip and clean my feet in the water. Unfortunately it is across the stream from me and I have no alternative, but to plunge into the water again. I roll up the hem of my trousers to ankle height this time in hopes that I can avoid sopping anymore clothing.

The water seems colder than before and I wonder if it is because I am expecting it. Step by step I go noticing how some parts of the stream bed are much rougher and uneven than others. I misplace my foot and am falling. The water covers my face, head, and whole body for a moment before I stand back up. I have no risk of drowning the water is only about a foot and a half deep and once I am back on my feet I am safe. My clothes and hair however are soaked. I am shaking with cold by the time I reach the rock and sit in a way that keeps my feet out of the water as I give my body a chance to warm up.

Finally pausing long enough to really look around I realize how beautiful the forest really is. It is canopied by thousands and thousands of rich green oak leaves that let only tiny rays of gray light in between the gaps. The trunks of the trees are so thick they look like great stone pillars in a cathedral many of them wrapt with ivy and mistletoe. Pine trees that could be large enough to be any forest's crowning glory are dwarfed and the whole land is smothered with thick, green moss.

Purple flowers that I have only seen occasionally now add splashes of color to all the world around me and if someone would tell me that this was a fairy realm where naiads bathe, and dryads play, I would have believed them.

The signs of late summer are all around. The holly berries are reddening, wild carrots with its lacy white flowers are thick on the ground, and the sloe berries are taking on their iconic color. The air is thick and heavy and I fear that it might start to rain soon.

I dip my right foot in the water and bring it back up and start rubbing the hurt places with my thumb to remove some of the dried blood. The thinner smears that were diluted with water come off soon enough, but the thicker parts are harder to deal with and I walk the thin line between cleaning the wounds and removing the new scabs. I start in on the other foot soon enough and am about to put my shoes back on when a single wren breaks past me letting out a chirping call and I know something has shifted.

The atmosphere of the woods has shifted and I feel like the deer I saw yesterday with my eyes wide and my ears twitching as I try and determine what it is. I am not frightened, but apprehensive. My ears detect a soft padding behind me, it's barely detectable, but whatever it is it's heavier than any creature I have seen today. Dry, crisp leaves left over from last winter crackle beneath their footfalls and I force myself to turn around.

Just over the hill crest I see Katniss's shoulders and head. Her eyes are focused on a tree to my distant right and her hands are working at a hair pin. Her hair is done in a single plaited braid and it suits her so well. I feel that it is so much more appropriate for her than the complexed, curling updos I have always seen her with. It is simple yet sophisticated, practical yet beautiful. I feel that it sums her up well.

Her head disappears behind the landscape and I stand to my feet. I can still see her now, but she is on the move and I follow after her keeping to the river bank. Tracking her is harder than I would have ever imagined she is swift and nearly silent and I am a wobbling stork trying to run on land. She stops and I nearly pass by, her white nightdress catching my eye at the very last moment.

The hillside that separates us is covered with long grass and I crawl through it to gain a better view of her. She is fiddling with the collar button of her long frilly nightgown and has a distinct look on her face. It is not an overly excited face with a smile that shows all her teeth, it reminds me more of De Vinci's Mona Lisa a subtly happy expression that shrouds the world in mystery.

When her hands move down to the next button of her dress I burry my face in my forearms and my cheeks burns red. She is changing or stripping naked, or doing something that I should not be observing. It is wrong so wrong, I should not be here. This is a solitary place for her and I have invaded it. This is all my fault. 'What should I do?' I ask myself in dismay. I had never imagined anything like this would happen.

'You must reveal yourself, before it is too late.' My conscience tells me. It's right and I know it, but I cannot imagine a good way these events unfold for me. I lift my head up right as I hear heavy fabric hit the ground. When I lay eyes on her I want to collapse in relief. Her nightgown is off, but she is still fully clothed. Well in truth maybe not as 'fully' clothed as society expects her to be I can see her bare leg from her knees down and her arms are bare. Her white shift is opaque however and I can see nothing more than that.

"Oh, thank God. Thank God." I want to whisper to the dirt. Things are not as bad as they could have been and I am relieved.

She starts to move and I cannot take my eyes off of her. She is so at one with the forest and all its living things that is magnificent to watch. She belongs here as much as the wild flowers and starlings. The forest would not be complete without them. She makes her way over to the base of a tree and reaches for a branch above her head. She swings herself up in one fluid motion and is perched on the branch faster than I can blink.

Strength is not something usually admired in a girl. I know some village girls who have been complimented with things like being a 'hard worker' or a 'sturdy girl', but raw physical might is never talked about. This is even more shocking when you think of Katniss in the terms of being a fine lady who isn't even suppose to be sturdy, but rather fragile and waif like.

Bird song cuts through my thoughts and I glance around trying to place it. It is a wild warbling like I have never heard before and I search every branch for the source. I search from the highest parts of the trees and work my way down. If a stranger would pass and see me it would look like I was reading an invisible book plastered across the forest. My heart nearly melts when I realize that it is no bird at all making that call, but actually Katniss.

She is whistling so well it puts the birds to shame and when she pauses for a moment they call back to her. She listens to the birds who answer her call and then echoes them. They all call back. She can talk to the birds. I cannot imagine how she could be anymore lovely to me than she is right now.

She is so alive here and as I watch her I realize that so am I. Her untamed spirit is rubbing of on me and I can feel my heart tearing at my chest to escape its confines and fly to her like so many birds in the trees. I love her so much in this moment that it almost feel like sorrow, in that the feeling floods my chest and almost weighs me down and I cannot escape it. Then as if my joy was not complete enough she sings.

What a voice she has and if I should die here right now I would be content for I will have lived all the life I would have ever needed. It is so rich and deep that the birds stop to listen and the forest stills. It drags at one's soul and says come feel what I feel and hear what I sing. The voice has bewitched me and I rise to my feet.

Like Odysseus heading for the rocks when the sirens sang, I too go forth to face my fate. I have no choice in the matter my heart has been ransomed and she alone owns it now. My only thoughts are that I have to be nearer. I have to draw closer and my feet move on their own accord as if I have no choice in the matter.

With every step I take I can see her in more detail. Her eyes are closed as she leans against the tree trunk which explains why she has not seen me yet as I approach. She is drinking in the sound as much as I am. Her face is so serene as she sings she reminds me of an angel singing over the nativity; her face free of flaw and her mouth open and full of song.

I almost wonder if I am even alive things this wonderful never happen to me. I have never experienced this kind of luck. I am standing mere feet from the girl I love, who is singing (a talent I did not know she had), and I have faced no consequences for my actions. Step after step I go and I am about to break through to something new when a twig snaps beneath me.

It sounds like a fire cracker and her voice is cut short. The noise startles her and she stood bolt up right and turned her head to find the source. Her sudden movements cause her to lose her balance and I watch her bob back and forth like a tight rope walker at the circus. Then in a terrible moment she is falling. I have enough time to think 'What have I done?' and take another step closer not that it would do any good I am too far of.

She never reaches the ground. She managed to catch herself at the last moment and is dangling from the tree branch and facing away from me. Her toes dangle a foot asbove the ground and she could easily drop down withosut doing herself any harm.

I come even closer to her and offer what assistance I can without saying a word. I wrap my arms around her waist and lower her tenderly the rest of the way to the the ground. She seems in some kind of shock and remains perfectly still. I place a hand on her shoulder and gently turn her around to face me.

Her expression is full of storm and thunder when she see who I am and I am almost fearful. Wild things posses rage as well as serenity. Her nose is flared and she seems to be drawing in frantic, wild breaths and I wonder if this is the same girl who prances around in evening gowns and has a face of stone whenever I see her.

She speaks, "Why are you here?" She has so much passion behind her gray eyes that it is like being struck by lightning.

I open my mouth and the words fall out so effortlessly, "Because I love you."

Author's Note: A little shorter than I would have liked, but still a decent sized chapter. Please review they bring me so much joy and help me keep writing.


	7. Chapter 6

Author's Note: This chapter is long overdue and I apologize. I was lost between the wild, screaming reds and the deep blues and that led to dark place. I just couldn't write for a few weeks I just felt too numb.

**All or None**

**Chapter 6**

I should regret what I have said, but do not. The words I spoke were true, and why should I regret saying them?

Her face contorts with another bitter expression and she answers me, "No you do not!" She gathers her abandoned nightgown from the forest floor and takes of in a tear, and like that she is gone.

I could chase after her, run her down, force the situation to be something that it isn't, but instead I remain where I am. She doesn't want me and I need to make peace with that. I won't torment her with my affections I love her too much to do that. If her wish is to push me away then I will let it be.

The walk back to the house is lonesome and solemn as I work out in my mind what just happened. For the first time since I have laid eyes on her Katniss is real to me. Not that she was ever anything sub-human to me, but holding her in my arms turned her into real flesh and blood. She was no longer a great lady in a grand house where I worked, but rather a very real person that I could be there to have and to hold.

My throat burns and I swallow in an attempt to fight off the tears that threaten to come. I can't walk into the house crying. I am filled with dread. 'The House!" I yell to myself. I have completely forgotten about my duties and the time. I look to the sky and this does nothing to pacify me. I am sure that it is already past half past six. I have only minutes to dress and be down by seven and I am walking through a field.

Others could easily be up by now. I know some of the maids rise before I do in order to clean more of the house. I could easily be seen and realize what a vulnerable situation I have put myself in with my actions. I start to run I think I have given Katniss enough time to return to the house without thinking that I am perusing her and I must get to my room in a hurry.

The kitchen floors are slick in my wet shoes and fall to my hands and knees running up the stairs. I don't even stop to think of these things I can't let anyone see me in this state and be able to ask a question I won't be able to answer.

By some miracle I have been I am able to reach my room undetected. Cato is still asleep in bed, maybe I am not as late as I thought. I start stripping off my sopping, grass stained, muddy clothes and tossing them on the bed. Once I am down to just my underwear I realize that what I am going to do with the pile on my bed is quite a sticky wicket.

I can't send them down to be laundered the normal way and I can't put them back in my shared closet. I make my mind up to wad the soaking heap together and toss it under my bed I can deal with it later. Looking around I make sure no one entering the room will see any clothes sticking out and then start dressing in my livery.

Half way through buttoning my shirt up Cato wakes. He glances at the window and then throws his arm over his eyes as if disgusted by the first morning light and another day dawning. I can relate to this sentiment this day is not half of what I hoped it would be.

He then asks in a groggy, half-asleep voice, "Where the hell have you been?"

I feel the air in my throat catch and my stomach twist inside me. He knows I left. I grab my coat and black tie and answer, "sleep walking", before heading out the door. I finish dressing as I descend the stair and am straightening my tie when I step into the kitchen.

Delly's blue eyes snap up and meet mine. She then heaves a sigh of relief and says, "Good, you're down early. You have to get Mrs. Sae up early I can't finish all this work on time."

I nod and take the tray without a word. For all the commotion I made this morning she didn't notice, but Cato did. It's like my best laid plans never come through. I enter the dark, gloomy room and drop the tray at shoulder height. It shatters into pieces and the saucer breaks as well. The spilled tea floods the cracks between the broken glass.

I drop to my knees and start picking up what pieces I can find in the dim light. Looking up I find the old woman sitting up in bed, her night cap askew, and her gray hair matted in sleep. I close my mouth as I realize I had been muttering to myself as I worked. Her eyes meet mine and I know that she has seen, if not heard, my misery.

"Go," she says in a gentle voice as she points to the door, "I'll get one of my girls to clean it up."

I nod to acknowledge her and turn to leave. I return to the counter where my food is usually resting, but nothing is there today. I look at Delly and words start forming in my mind about what I am going to say to her, but as usual she is ten steps ahead of me.

"Oh you'll get nothing right now. Some of the guests are leaving early and you need to be up setting the table. I'll try to keep some scraps warm for you and maybe you can grab a bite later."

Nothing in the way she said this was the least bit mean, it just wasn't as nice as it normally is. I have upset her and I realize I will need to make an apology later. I have nothing to say at the moment and move out of the kitchen. In my mind I feel that it is better at this point to make one large plea for forgiveness, than a worthless short one.

Running up stairs is a terrible experience when your stomach's empty. Every step causes your muscle to tighten around the empty cavern inside you, just so you don't forget you haven't eaten yet. I hear the footfalls of someone descending the stairs and instinctively turn to the side. It is Lavinia holding Katniss's torn and muddy nightgown. There are even brambles in the lace collar. Lavinia knows, she has to know. I wish I wasn't in such a hurry, I want to be able to think about that, but there is no time.

I break protocol and run openly through the house to the breakfast room. By some miracle Snow is not there. Cato is and he has already draped the first white table cloth on. It is a job for two though and both ends hang crooked. Without a word I grab my side and we lay it straight. The second one goes on just as easily and before I know it I am setting the table. There are so many of them to place, but this no longer concerns me I have developed an eye for it now. The plate should be a palm's width away from the edge of the table. The knife should be two fingers away from the plates right side. The spoon one finger away from that.

I place six settings and Cato does seven. I feel almost bad for him though. Something about the red paint in the room accentuates his pallid complexion and the dark circles under his eyes. He works hard. I'd almost say too hard, but he still seems to have energy for scheming. He goes to bed later than me every night and for as much talks about becoming a butler at least he puts his money where his mouth is and works like a demon to get where he is going.

The breakfast is extravagant: sweet meats of every kind a person's ever heard of, three different kinds of eggs, and juices are provided from exotic fruits. In an endless cycle up and down the stairs I go. Carrying tray after tray. It is the last meal some people will be having at Panem House and it must be memorable. Even in all my frenzy I notice that Katniss and Mr. Hawthorne are missing from the party.

The stiff collar around my neck is wet by the time my duties are complete and I am told to go stand by the door. Standing still has never been so hard for me. My lungs are still burning and my cheeks are flushed. All my clothes seem to irritate my skin and I am tormented by the fact that I can't adjust them. I think about how if I was at home I would not have to be wrapt in such heavy, highly starched, fabric and could easily be wearing a soft, breathable cotton shirt.

Some scuffling and whispering draw my attention to the outer hall and in the far left corner of the room Katniss and Mr. Hawthorne make their appearance. It is easy to tell why they weren't at breakfast this morning they were both out horse riding. There is a whisper of a smile on both their faces and I am grieved.

My first reaction is to hate him, violently, passionately, hate him. I recant this feeling almost as soon as I have it. I don't mean it. My problem lies with the fact that I have held this girl in my arms and felt her heart beat against my own. I know things about her that he never will and I have treasured even the smallest things I learn about her as if they were precious gems. My true problem now lies in the fact that Katniss is now real to me.

Before she was always a notion, an idea, a lovely unattainable idea. Now all of that has changed. I now know the warmth her skin gives off when you touch it, the rate her breathe becomes when she is frightened, the way she fits so easily in my arms. She is entirely human too. I could have her. She could be mine.

There are too many 'could's in those sentences because she won't have me and doesn't want me. It shouldn't be a surprise to me, but it still creates a deep wound that only time can heal. They disappear into another hall branching of the room and are gone leaving me alone only with my thoughts.

Time passes at a disjointed rate of jumps and starts and long unending hours. Guests leave and I help them with their bags. Then for a half hour nothing happens. Lady Primrose walks by with her hair tied up in ribbons and her three cats trailing behind her all wearing different colored butterfly wings. Not another person passes for fifteen minutes. Snow emerges from a dark hall beside me. I keep my eyes straight I have not seen him all day and I know he will ignore me.

My intuition fails me. "Mr. Mellark," Snow's deep, gravely voice breaks into the silence, "those shoes are not up to standard."

I look down and deep crimson blooms on my cheeks. My dark shoes are not longer black, but rather varying shades of brown with mud coating every inch of them to different degrees. Grass is plastered like a fringe around the edge of my heels, and I cannot believe I have not been tracking marks through out the whole house.

"Go down this instant and clean them." I flee from his presence and hurry to the stairs. "What a fool I've been." I think to myself. I could lose my job over this. I am in the work room before I know it pulling a jar of tallow from the shelves and feeling sick in my stomach.

Sitting down I realize I could have forgotten the the tallow I need to get the debris of them first. I remove my left shoe and the the other being carful not to mark my trousers with dirt. My big toe peeks out from a hole in my wool socks. I don't know how to darn it myself and I haven't plucked up the courage to write home. If they saw a letter from me I'm sure they wouldn't even open it without debating whether I would have a bed to sleep there tonight.

My hands start scrapping away the filth and I am sick with myself for getting into this situation. Why did I do any of it? I thought it would solve my situation and bring closure and hopefully some opportunity. Instead it left me in a dazed and confused place. My insides almost seem to itch with a hot confusion as I realize that I had never been closer or farther from her than I was this morning. I mourn the fact that I fell in love with someone who could so easily walk away.

I chip furiously away at the mud on the shoes and when that is done I realize that I need a wet rag to get the fine dust of them before I start trying to shine them. I walk over to the hand pump in the corner of the room. My sock snags on the rough wood, by the time I get the stray thread free four of my toes are left uncovered and the sock is beyond repair. I retrieve the water I need and then sit back down and start throwing myself into my work. I can't think about my problems right now they would consume me.

I use my wet rag to return the shoes to their normal black color. The dirt that has been on them dulled them considerably and I know the shining process will take some time. I break some tallow free and start rubbing it in trying to find my rhythm. My circles are small as I try to focus. I can see the shoe's potential now and this encourages me. My scrubbing rate increases and everything does not seem so lost. I can fix them. It will all be alright.

The luster returns, all will be well again, until I find it. On the interior of my right shoe is a pit mark about the size of a pea. It is gray, dull, and draws the eye. I want to lay my head down on the table and cry. It's not over the mark. Today has been an all around terrible experience. I know tears won't help me now and I continue until I finish the job. I'm amazed at how they can look so perfect except for that one blemish. With a ruined sock, a damaged shoe, and a broken heart I leave the room.

The door clicks shut behind me and I can see the servant's hall buzzing with excitement. It must be near tea time. I had nearly forgotten. Hunger grips me and I remember that I haven't eaten all day. I see Lavinia's flaming locks flash past the entrance and I also remember that there is something I recently discovered that I need to ask her about.

I try and organize the words in my mind as I walk towards the hall. I don't want to sound like I am accusing her of anything, but I want her to realize that I know the full scope of Katniss's morning adventures.

With every step the noise of a Panem servant's life increases: laughter and chatter from maids, the endless clattering of china on a wooden table, Mrs. Sae giving orders in the kitchen. I break free of the hall and a bell rings. Everyone goes quite and looks up. It is a guest's room. Nervous whispering breaks out. No one is sure if a man or woman is staying in that room. If it is a lady a maid should go. If it is a gentleman it is my responsibility.

The bell rings again and the uncertainty of the room does not change. Mr. Snow appears from the stairwell and looks to me then my shoes. "Mr. Mellark, please go up and assist Mr. Hawthorne with his bags he will be leaving early."

"Yes Sir, Mr. Snow." I say hoping I am not smiling too much. I can't help it this is a positive change in events. I feel the same warmth a person feels when the first pleasant day after winter comes or when a person sees crocus in the snow drifts. Winter is over spring is coming.

He must be saying his goodbyes, because when I enter the forest green room full of oak furnishings he is nowhere to be seen. His two suitcases sit by the end of the bed and I collect them with a spring in my step and a song in my heart.

At the top of the stairs I see him clasping Katniss's hands in his own as they say their final words to each other. This no longer bothers me because she is staying and he is going away, far far away.

The birdsong never sounded so cheerful to me as I strap his bags to the back of the car. I make sure to do a good job to help ensure he has no reason for an early return. I suppress the urge to wave as the car pulls out of the drive and heads for the gravel road. Things are finally going my way.

Snow pulls me aside once we are back within the walls of Panem at first I thought he was going to inform me that looking absolutely overjoyed at a guest departure was not acceptable behavior. He instead told me that I would have no break today because Cato had to take my place at the door. Cato was suppose to be shining silver during that time so now it is my job to do it. I readily agree. It only seems fair.

The silver has been brought down by other servants and now decks an entire workbench. In my mind this is how a tomb of an Egyptian pharaoh would look with treasures stacked all around. The metal does not even looked tarnished to me and if they were pieces at my house I would see not problem with them.

I find a clean rag and start rubbing. A slight sediment does come off and I start working faster. Silver is a funny thing. When you clean it you don't want to clean all the crevices of their tarnish. They idea is by leaving the details dark thy are better expressed. The eye is more likely to be drawn to them. The imperfection enhances them. The stain makes them more endearing. I think back to my shoes and how upset I was that they would now be flawed, but maybe things do not have to be perfect to be good. Maybe the flaws enrich the the value and beauty.

The work is not hard. All it takes is a firm hand and a clean rag. I leave the now gleaming silver on the table hoping that it will return from whence it came as mysteriously as it arrived. The smell of dinner wafting through the hall remind me of something. I haven't eaten.

The realization leads to an almost crippling pain in my stomach as if it wants to punish me for my neglect. I stand just outside the kitchen door and scan the room making sure Mrs. Sae is no where in sight. I can't find her anywhere and assume the coast is clear.

I stick my head through the entrance. "Delly. Delly." I hiss looking in her direction.

Her attention averts from the three pots she has on burners and she looks up at me. Recognizing me she lifts up her wooden spoon from a sauce to show me she has my full attention.

"What?" She calls back in a hushed voice. The small movement she makes causes a drip to break free from the spoon and bright red liquid coats the edge of her skirt and the floor.

"You said you would try and save some food for me."

She purses her lips and then answers in a slightly shocked voice, "Peeta, that was almost eight hours ago."

"I know, I know." I say in an apologetic way. "But I didn't get any breakfast and also missed tea. I need something."

"Oh, alright." She says. Covering her hand with her apron and grabbing a fresh roll from her covered basket. She places it in my hand and I immediately toss it up and then catch it. The bread is burning hot and I continue to juggle it to avoid being burned.

"Thanks a million." I say as I leave the room just in time to avoid running into Mrs. Sae.

I have been raised around bread my whole life and feel like I know as well as anyone all of its qualities and failings. After eating that roll though I have to conclude that the best thing about baked things is that if you drink enough water with it you can feel like you just had a small feast.

The house seems less hectic tonight. All the guests are gone and things seem to have slowed down. This surprises me a little more than a month ago the dinner service always seemed so frantic and like it was on the edge of spiraling out of control. Now it is almost relaxing bordering on boring.

I follow Cato up, bringing the bread for the first course and enter the blue dining room again. Seeing the family I remember why there will be a little excitement for me tonight. Katniss is here and it will be the closest we have been since this morning when I lowered her from the tree. It doesn't help that she looks spectacular tonight in a deep blue, satin dress. I refuse to except that she probably was saving it for what was suppose to be Mr. Hawthorne's last night.

My face feels like it might melt as I lean in to serve her the bread. How can she act so calm? We are so close. We shared such an intimate moment this morning. I feel alive and dead all at once ad my heart seems to sputter with an excited misery. She takes the bread and moves on. I am forced to draw back remember not to linger after serving a person.

At this moment I wish more than anything that she was not so tranquil. I wish she had such high spirits that everyone in the room would know what she was thinking or at least enough spirit so that I knew what she was thinking. Does she love me? Does she hate me? Does she wish me dead? It's all lost in that smooth unchanging face.

I force myself not to smile at a thought I just had. We share a secret now and even she can't ignore that. I know she goes to the woods in the morning and she knows that I followed her there. This is a link between us. Another thought follows that is not as hopeful, maybe she does hate me. She cannot reveal me because she would have to admit that she runs off to the forrest in the morning and she has her reasons for keeping this as concealed.

My knowledge might frighten her. I might frighten her. She has no reason to believe that I will keep this information to myself. The true depth of my affection escapes her. I feel a slight choking feeling bubble up inside me as I hope that I have not become a thing to be feared and distrusted to her.

Author's Note: Please review they help me more than you imagine. A review helped me come back and more reviews can help me keep going.


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